


The Rise and Fall of Matt Litter

by itsmesophie



Category: Original Work
Genre: (a very happy ending but you'll HAVE TO WAIT), A lot of music, And Music, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I mean, Inspired by Music, M/M, Music, Musical References, Musicians, Other, Please Don't Hate Me, Romance, Songs, also it's a happy ending EVENTUALLY, and this was basically thought as a fic at first but it just didn't work out SO HERE IT IS, basically i love music and to write about it but i don't know nothing about music world, i mean it's all romance, just many songs, look i just love my boy Matt a lot alright?, whatever, yeah it's got a lot of music because it's about musicians basically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29043033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmesophie/pseuds/itsmesophie
Summary: In the summer of 2010, Free the Doves are one of the best-selling artists of the United States. Those five boys have the world in their hands; with two albums and a second tour ahead, nothing can get any better... and this is just the beginning.For twenty-two-year-old bassist and main lyricist Matt Litter, to navigate the world of fame is not as easy as it seems. It's got its advantages, like getting to escape his miserable New Jersey life, loving fans, and to get to travel the world, but also its dark side —and for him, it's living his life in the public eye. The press, its lies and interest in his personal life (particularly regarding his relationship with fellow bandmate, Demian) make it all extremely hard...As fame begins to increase and his personal life begins to get in the middle, Matt finds himself trapped in a lifestyle that, maybe, just maybe, confirms his biggest fear —that maybe, he wasn't made to do the thing he loves doing the most...
Relationships: Original Female Character & Original Male Character, Original Male Character & Original Male Character, Original Male Character(s) & Original Male Character(s), Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	1. Prologue: Memories

“Trust me, you don’t want this,” the young man says, as he sits on the big, cream-colored couch, as the dim light of the early morning hours reaches his eyes and makes them close in order not to be blinded by it. Despite the early morning hours, a beer can rests in his hand, and its only allowed to meet his lips once he gets rid of the messy and annoying hairs that dance across his face, moved by the fan’s wind. The girl, who sits on top of one of the couch’s arms, at least four feet away from him, awaits. She’s curious, anxious and, on top of that, aware.

As a matter of fact, she’s very aware of what she’s just asked. She’s very aware Matt Litter is not someone to mess with, not when talking about things like these, especially when she’s some sort of guest in his house, especially after the deal they’ve made, which will allow her to get busy on the summer days, spending as little time as possible in her own house…

She’s very aware of that. Besides, she’s very aware of the fact she barely knows him. She met him some weeks ago, and she knows there’s no nearly enough trust between them for him to be telling her that story —his life story. Matt Litter is a very mysterious guy, internet rumors didn’t lie when it came to that… but what about the rest of it? What about the reasons behind all his mysterious persona, or the things he’s hiding, or the reasons why… what about all that?

She doesn’t know, but she’d be lying if she said she doesn’t want to know.

“I do,” the girl admits, when a few minutes in complete silence have passed, and she has gained enough trust to sit on the couch, nearer where he is but without getting too close, “I do want to know…” she adds. Matt laughs, and as his hysterical laughter fills the room, Taylor can’t help but to notice the hysterical part is also accompanied by something else —dread.

“You don’t,” Matt tells her, after he’s taking a long, quiet sip of his beer, “you’re just curious…”

“And, by definition, I think that makes me want to know… right?” he smiles now, but Taylor doesn’t quite buy it. “Besides,” she continues, “I think… can I confess something?” he says nothing. Instead, makes a hand gesture, as if he were allowing her to go ahead and, indeed, speak her mind. “I think it’d be good for you to speak about it, Matt… keeping it all to yourself hasn’t done you any good…” he smiles again, that fake smile of his that is beginning to get on the girl’s nerves. She looks around the room before speaking again; they’re in the living-room, the spacious living-room where a couch, two armchairs, a big plasma, and a coffee table stand. Besides, a few paintings —all replicas, but nevertheless impressive— are on the floor, ready to be hanged, as they’ve been for the past five-ish years. On their right, thanks to some very big and very tall windows, the yard is visible, as well as the pool, and the morning sky.

Taylor looks back at Matt, only to catch him staring at her, thoughtful.

“Why do you really want to know?” he asks his companion, after some seconds, “you’re just a kid… you don’t even like my music…”

“And you’re just a failed rockstar… you don’t even like yourself,” Taylor adds, intending to sound as sure of herself as she can. Matt Litter smiles again, and with that, some more beer lands on his mouth. After he’s done with the can, he leaves it on a side, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

“That hurts,” it’s what he says next, making the kid instantly regret her previous choice of words, “but it’s true, so what’s the point in complaining?” after opening his eyes again, he adds, “I’ll talk to you, Taylor… but only for a little bit and just because you’ve been actually kind to me these past weeks helping me with— the place…” the girl smiles, but it’s not long before she hides the small gesture behind her typical serious expression, “I doubt it’ll do me any good, but… whatever…” he takes a deep breath and crosses his legs. Almost as if it were a reflex, Taylor does the same thing. She quickly places her blonde, curly hair behind her ears, ready to listen to whatever story Matt Litter, former sort of employer (and maybe even friend?) of hers has to tell about his ex-rockstar life, that life that right now, about five years later, seemed to be far away… but it’s, indeed, closer than ever.

“Will you tell me about him?” the girl asks, almost as a request, and before Matt can give her an actual answer, the shadow of a smile crosses his face, disappearing almost as fast as it appeared.

“Yeah, I’ll tell you about him…” he says, without looking at her, “I’ll—” he takes another deep breath, before closing his eyes again, “I’ll tell you everything about him…”


	2. Hello, I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Free the Doves: The Beginings (or, alternatively: How The Band Found Their Early Success And How Matt Litter Found A Soulmate)

There's nothing I hate more than the moment before getting on the tour bus after a show. The anxiety it gives me is unmatched, as well as the fears, although probably both of them are related. Before the gig, I can manage. I mean, you never know what to expect, and even if that used to scare me a great deal, I learned to overcome it by simply focusing on something else. I don't know how I manage to do so, to be honest, but I just forget about it all when I get on the stage, bass in my hand and an instant smile on my face. But the moments after? I hate those. I hate them because it's the moment people talk. Was the show good? Did they love it? Hate it? Where they as fascinated by it as we were, as I was? Or couldn't they wait until it was over? Did they want to spit on us? Did they want to get on the stage with us? What did they think?

Those things I cannot answer. I don't think it's an issue of mine, it's just that... well, there's no answer, really, because everyone's different. And yet, the internet, papers, magazines, tv shows, journalists... they talk.

Now I'm not even on a tour bus. As a matter of fact, the tour is just beginning, and yet, the anxiety bothers to show itself. Maybe it's the fact tonight we're playing the first date of this summer's tour —and that means a new era for us.

I don't think that there's ever been a time I didn't care about critics and what they said about me, my band, or my music. I mean, there's no way I've ever played music without being way too anxious, or way too much of a perfectionist —or probably both at the same time.

Hell, I even got nervous when thinking about starting a band... at least for the majority of the time. I got nervous thinking about writing music with somebody else, showing somebody else what I wrote, or my ideas... it was like opening my heart to someone, like being more honest than what I ever was (because that's what writing means to me, after all), because it meant potential criticism... and potential rejection, even.

At least that was until _him_.

I met him at his eighteenth birthday party.

We had a mutual friend, Freddy. I met Freddy thanks to my roommate, Nick; thing is, I had turned eighteen a few months before finishing high school, and the night after finishing it, I had left home with a few things, all my savings, and the idea I could try luck as honest, but a musician away from home. I'm from New Jersey and I ended up in New York, which wasn't very far from there. I honestly didn't expect to end up there, I was just passing by, but you see... it was him; it was all _him_.

I met Nick via an internet announcement. He was studying in New York and was looking for someone to pay rent with. He luckily turned out to be the right guy for me, and we quickly became friends.

You see, Nick, the drummer, is a year older than me and looking for musicians. He used to have a band but it didn't end well, so... he was trying to make it all work again. He already had a guitarist, a shy guy he knew from high school called Freddy but lacked a bassist and a singer.

Guess what? I play bass since I was fifteen.

Anyway, I lived with Nick while working both at a video club and at a gas station in New York, and a few months later, around August, this friend of his, Freddy, told us he had met the perfect guy for the band.

The truth is, all these guys wanted to do was to play music. You see, they didn't give a shit about becoming famous or anything; of course, the more money they could make, the better, because as they say in this really old movie, Cabaret, ' _money makes the world go round_ '. And hell, they're right; it sure does. But anyway, what I mean is they didn't care about spotlights and interviews, tour buses, and fame, they only wanted to make a living out of music. I never thought they were serious until I heard the both of them, Nick and Freddy, talk about it. God, they looked excited, like little kids, I swear. Freddy had come home and brought beers and as soon as we started drinking them, they started jumping all around the place, excited and picturing a life made only of music. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, they didn't care about those things (not yet at least); they only cared about _music_. And boy, I'd be lying if I said I didn't care about the same.

I wanted to make music since I was a kid. It was all I cared about, the air I breathed... it was everything to me. And it seemed to be everything for these guys, too.

Thing is, Freddy he had a brother, Mark, who knew a guy whose cousin was probably the best singer he had ever heard. He had a beautiful voice, apparently, and he was probably the person we needed for the band. Freddy confessed having heard him sing and that he had _the_ most amazing voice. They were already talking about a band, Freddy and Nick; I was just drinking beer. Yeah, I wanted a band, but I had always had a thing when it came to playing music with other people. It wasn't about playing it in front of others but _along_ with others. Working _with_ others... it had always been a problem for me. I just can't seem to grasp the concept of working alongside others, I hate it. I hate it because I've always been a pretty responsible guy, and not everyone is like that, so I turn out to be the one doing ninety percent of the job, all the time. Somehow, these guys convinced me we should actually start a band and they should actually talk to this guy, Freddy's cousin's friend guy, and see if he had this magical voice everyone said he had... and this guy.... let's just call him 'this guy' from now on but let me spoil you something; he had _that_ magical voice.

And he had much more.

So, this guy was coming to New York to stay with his cousin until September, and his eighteen-birthday party was about to happen. This guy was having a party, not because he actually felt like it but because his cousin wanted him to 'turn eighteen in the greatest city in the world, the greatest possible way.' Of course, that meant throwing him one hell of a party at one hell of a place.

And we turned out to be invited to said party.

I don't know how Freddy arranged it, but he talked to his cousin who talked to his friend who talked to the guy and his cousin and they just let us in... the more the better, right?

So, on a Friday night, this guy was turning eighteen and even if he had never met us, there we were, in one hell of a party, celebrated for him and for him only.

That night I met him. And that night, my life changed forever.

He was a handsome guy even at that age, I can assure you. He had a notorious babyface, and yet, a very handsome one. Dark hair, blue eyes, and the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. He smiled all the time, I mean it. All damned day. He had this energy... I don't know how to explain it, such particular energy that belonged to him and him only, contagious energy, one that made you just want to be around him all day.

I didn't meet him instantly that night; I waited for Freddy's cousin's friend to introduce him to us, I mean, to Nick and me. And then he left with his friends, and I stayed with mine. But Nick, the party animal he was slowly becoming, always searching for an opportunity to get drunk and meet new people, slowly drifted into party mood, followed by Freddy, and I lost them an hour into the night.

I still had the rest of it to go.

Luckily, this guy was there to save my ass —or my soul, actually.

His name is Demian, by the way. Like the book, the one by Herman Hesse.

He found me in the middle of the party, drinking a beer, and asked me about the band.

"You're Jack's guy, aren't you?" he asked, suddenly sitting by my side.

"Who's Jack?" I asked because since I was very lousy with names (my bad) I couldn't remember the name of the guy who had introduced us. Demian laughed, casually.

"The guy who introduced each other. A friend of your friend, uh..." he seemed to be struggling with names as well.

"You mean Freddy?"

"Yeah. Or his... brother's?"

"His cousin's, but you were close..." he smiled that handsome smile of his. Boy, I'd lie if I said I didn't fell for him at that instant or, actually, for his smile. "And you're birthday boy, so what about that, huh?"

"Not eighteen yet, not until twelve," he corrected me, "but we're almost there." I laughed. I liked this guy. "I'm Demian," he said, his hand stretching as to shake mine. I raised my eyebrows since there was no one I've seen before that had done that... like ever. And besides, we had already been introduced before. Still... I liked this guy.

"I'm Matt," I introduced myself, again, "and I've heard you've got a lovely singing voice..." I added.

No, I wasn't trying to flirt... or well, maybe I was a little bit, but it wasn't my main issue. My main issue was the music and the band. My concern was the art, the expression, and the desperate need of a singer in the band we were going to become. But of course, I didn't want to sound desperate and ask him to sing something for me... not just yet.

"Just my singing voice? Isn't my normal voice lovely enough?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. I just chuckled. I liked this guy, indeed... "I'm sorry, I'm a little tipsy, I— I'm not usually like this..."

"No need to apologize, man. Today's your birthday or tomorrow, but the point is it's a celebration."

"You want me to sing for you?" he asked me, drinking a sip from his beer. I said nothing, just looked at him, perplexed.

"I— what?"

"I can sing for you. And see if I'm the right one for your band..." I let out laughter, and he smiled. That beautiful smile of his...

"We have no band yet... but I'd actually like to hear you sing."

He sang The Beatles' _All My Loving_ and with that, he conquered my heart.

There are only a few songs I can recall as completely meaningful songs for me. I mean songs I hear or play and I say, 'this is it, this is the song of _that_ time of my life, this is the song that made me who I am', that kind of bullshit... Only that it's not bullshit, not at all, but sometimes it feels like it. The Door's _Light My Fire_ is one of them. We used to have an old vinyl player at my house, but I never knew how to use it. I used to think it was one of my dad's things, one he was the only one allowed to touch or play with, and since he used to play an old, single vinyl record, just _one_ because he didn't have any other, I never learned how to actually play it. I hated my dad by the way, and I still do, but that's not the point; the point is, I was walking home from school one time when I found out a record store nearby was giving away free vinyl records. They were closing forever and they were selling some stuff and giving away other. I don't know what it was with that record specifically, with The Doors' self-titled and debut album, but it just caught my attention. So, I picked it up and took it home with me. I didn't know how to use the vinyl and I just thought it was easier than what it turned out to be and, long story short, the first song it played was; _Light My Fire._ I knew nothing about The Doors back then, by the way, but it didn't take me long to learn. Internet was already trendy, so I just looked them up online. That was the first glimpse of music I ever got. I learned how to use that damned vinyl and listened to that record over and over again until things happened, and I couldn't listen to it anymore. But the thing is I got really into music, rock music, because of that. I subsequently expanded to other genres, but it all started there, with that record... can't thank The Doors enough for that.

From that night on, Demian's eighteen birthday night _, All My Loving_ became a special song for me. For _us_.

After that one, he grabbed a guitar ('you never know when you'll need one! There's a karaoke machine here, you'd expect me to get up there without an instrument?') and started singing some more. We were in the quietest, closest corner of the place, where the music was barely audible and no one else was around; just me and him.

I don't know for how long we played, but I know I ended up with the guitar as he sang. If I didn't know a chord, we'd improvise it. _Together_. He'd say something, I'd play it, or I'd play something and he'd sing it.

I remember every single song we played that night. I do, still today, even after all the alcohol we drank, the drugs we took, the life we led... after all these years, I remember it all. I'll always will, no matter what happened then and no matter what happens next.

By midnight we were still playing songs, singing, smoking, and laughing. Everyone came to congratulate the birthday boy, after looking for him all over the place. We got back in, he blew the candles and we all clapped in return. But then, less than an hour later, when I was beginning to think I had lost him for the night, he grabbed my arm and asked me to finish what we had started. And so, we kept playing songs for the rest of the night.

I'm not kidding when I say I have loved him since. That big, sometimes joyful, sometimes playful, sometimes honest, smile of his stuck with us all night long.

I realized I was —slowly but surely— falling for him as he was singing Sinatra's _Fly Me to the Moon_. My feelings would be a mess from then on, and it would take so long for us both to realize what was going on behind the songs, the knowing looks in our eyes, that beautiful smile of his, that penetrating look on his face... but something was going on, something quite powerful. And something meaningful as well. Demian sure didn't have Sinatra's voice, but he was good... damn good. I don't recall how we came up with _that_ song specifically, or why, but the moment he started to sing, tapping with his fingers the ground we were both sited in, marking the beat... I just _realized_. He was just singing, you know?, and there I found myself, totally hypnotized by that delightful voice of his, by his face and his _everything._ I knew back then that boy and I was meant to be. And I wasn't mistaken...

We sang karaoke that night. It was because after a while we ran out of songs to play and decided to get back inside to get inspired. I believe we lasted about half an hour, five songs at maximum —we then went to hide once again. But not only did we hide; we wrote a song.

The first song of our band came up at four a.m. in a random bar, while everyone else was drunk, and even if we sort of were as well, we managed to come up with a beautiful song. Our first song. Our first single. Our first creation together, only hours after we had met for the first time. And yet there we were, writing a song.

 _Under Her Spell_ was the first one of our songs. Funnily enough, it didn't have any 'hers' involved, although we sort of sold it as a song about hopeful love, inspired by past loves... so we said.

A week later we had a band and ten songs written. Nick and Freddy couldn't believe it. Turns out, Freddy's cousin knew a guy who worked at a radio and let us, very kindly, play there about two months later.

All the songs were about us, without strictly _being_ about us. We were writing them together, which meant we were well aware of what we wrote but of course, if anyone dared to ask what were the songs about, we just said stuff like 'high school sweethearts', girls, broken hearts, and past times (because that _always_ sells, doesn't it?). And partially they were because ending a relationship or crying over one doesn't necessarily mean the only way to get your heart broken; sometimes life simply breaks your heart. Some other times, you simply let her.

Our first months as a band were based on playing on bars, clubs and looking for a label that would sign us. We also found ourselves a fifth member, another guitarist, a cool guy friend of Freddy named Martin. In the end, a label heard one of our demos and asked to meet us. Long story short, we ended up being signed by them and they produced our first record. And, you know how labels are, but if they're going to pay for something, it better turns out to be fucking good.

And we were.

By the end of the year we were already in talks for our album, but it would take almost another year for it to be released. It was okay; we were young, we had time. Too much time, perhaps.

Freddy and Martin were studying, both of them. They dropped out afterward, after our first album. With touring and stuff like that, studies simply don't match.

By Christmas the following year, we had a small tour planned.

I think about it now and I can't help but believe it all happened way too fast, and that we were way too young. I mean, not every band gets to be signed this fast, and not every band gets to reach success this fast either. It's not that we were a best-selling band right away, but we were lucky guys since we met someone who put us in contact with a label representative and they seemed to like our demos... lucky us once again, huh? It all was happening _way_ faster than the expected amount, and even if we thought it was a good thing at first, a nice one, that made us all lucky guys... well, I don't know how lucky we were. Maybe we would've needed more time to be able to process the entire thing. Maybe we needed more time for that, but never really thought about it. We were very young, very reckless, and, among it all, very stupid.

And yet, we can't undo the past. We can choose wheatear to remember or forget it, but we cannot touch it. It has, by natural law, to stay the way it was, for it cannot and will never be possible to change. No law, no magic spell or wish will ever make the past present —and yet, with each passing second, the present becomes the past.

But oh, how we wish we could change the past sometimes. Oh, how we wish to be able to change it, to mold it with our hands and with our minds. How we wish to tell our past selves, our younger selves, not to do a thing or another, as well as to do plenty of others... yet it's not possible, and it'll never be, but we never seem to know that, not when we think about all those things that could or might've been.

By the end of our first tour we were around twenty years old and well-known faces in all of America. People would ask us for pictures and autographs while walking down the street, while eating at restaurants, drinking at bars, and doing grocery shopping. Demian was already living with Nick and me by that time, but after the tour, Nick had found himself a girlfriend and moved out with her... yet, I still had the apartment and an urgent desire to keep on writing music.

The moment I found both —perfect neighborhood and perfect apartment— I moved away... Needless to say, Demian moved in with me.

And now, let's go forward some years... we've got almost immediate success, two albums behind us, a second tour ahead of us... We're friends, all of us, and... well, with the guys we're more like brothers, and with Demian, we're more like lovers. We write songs, we make music, we work great together, all of us... we're lucky guys, what can I say? We better enjoy it while we can...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this *officially* chapter 1 (the previous one is prologue, as you can see), so whatever.  
> Since every chapter is named after a song (and it's basically a story about music so, as you can tell, music is pretty important), i'll post a list of songs related to this SOON. 
> 
> [let's chat on tumblr!](https://ilivejustinmyownworld.tumblr.com/)


	3. Golden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: Golden (aka: A First Look At Interviewers Pissing Matt Litter Off And How He Manages To Get Over It)

“First thing I’d say to my past self? Uh… that’s a hard one,” I try to joke, as the blonde interviewer stares at me, attentive, waiting for whatever I’ll say, “I don’t know, not to pay attention to anyone that says I can’t make it and all kinds of shit?” I say.

“Can he say ‘shit’ while on air?” asks Demian, with that big grin of his in his face, while grabbing me by the arm and leaning almost over me to reach the microphone. I laugh as I push him away, and he laughs as well and gets hold of my arm.

After the success that our first album had been, Demian and I had bought tickets to Italy, to visit there. A European tour would follow the second album release, but we just didn’t know that. And we both wanted to visit Rome, so we agreed on going together. We wrote songs there and I’m not going to get into details but… something was going on already. It had always been going on between the two of us, but in Rome it all sort of… became _obvious._ Since we weren’t completely sure of what it was, we decided to keep it to ourselves for some time, but there’s one thing I always knew; those three weeks in Rome were unlike any other time in my life. No matter what happened next, and no matter what the future holds for me, it would be the time I treasure the most, forever. Always has and always will be.

And… cut to the interview again, that summer morning after a night at the bar and surrounded by alcohol, models, rockstars, drugs, smoke, and probably other things I don’t remember right now, we found ourselves in the middle of an interview at ten in the morning. I recall having slept about two hours that night, waking up, taking a shower, drinking some coffee, and heading to the radio.

I was usually nervous when it came to interviews, but I soon learned to overcome that feeling; sometimes I would get drunk, but since I was having one of the worst hangovers of my life, I couldn’t count on booze as my savior that time. And it’s not like I don’t appreciate what interviews mean, and the interviewer’s job, and whatever you want to call the whole experience, it’s just… the nerves were the first to arrive, then the excitement of talking about the lyrics, and then, the fact interviews were rarely what one might think. Sometimes they would ask you about lyrics, yes, but a million of others they’d ask the same two questions or talk about personal life, love life, girlfriends, and relationships. Meaning, all the things I hate talking about.

In my experience, you don’t necessarily need a failed romantic relationship in order to write something meaningful. You don’t even need romance. A failed relationship —call it friendship or family—, can be enough. You don’t even need a romantic _someone_ to break your heart; sometimes a friend does it. Or a family member. Sometimes, a situation does it, and there’s not exactly someone to blame on. Sometimes, life is just pure shit, and you have to learn to live with it.

Sometimes I’d bring that up. And yet, they’d always bring relationships up.

“About that line in Old Habits Die Hard, which I believe you wrote, Matt,” the interviewer asks me, intercalating looks between me and the paper she holds in her hand, “ _your heart does not beat like mine, maybe it never did —you’ve drowned it in booze long enough, Could you face me if you had the chance? Could you still put up a fight?”_ She looks at me in the eyes… I feel it coming. I feel the question approach…

I feel a kick in my stomach —a hard one, to be honest. I feel it sink in; I feel it hurt me, even before the poor woman has had the chance to ask the real question. “There has been a lot of speculation regarding who is it referred to, and I was wondering if you could tell us more about it… is it maybe about a girl? A past lover, perhaps?” I try to smile, I honestly do, but I don’t really feel like it. I don’t feel about discussing the meaning or the lyrics of this song in particular. Why can’t they talk about any other song? This one isn’t even one of the singles!

“A past heartbreak… yeah, it’s about that,” I begin to answer. We are not only being recorded, we are being filmed, and yet, I feel Demian’s hand on my knee, softly caressing it as dissimulated as he can, “but it ain’t heartbreak the way you guys like to call it…”

“Could you be a little more specific about that?” she asks. I don’t want to hate her, I truly don’t; she’s doing her job, after all, she probably didn’t even write the questions. And yet, I find myself wanting to scream at her. I want to get up, slam every wall in that place, leave, and never come back. Leave to Rome, perhaps… or Morocco, I always wanted to visit Morocco... But that won’t happen, not now at least since I’m stuck there. I can’t think about anything else; I can’t even go to the damned happy place.

“It’s not about girls,” I say, nervous, as I ran a hand through my hair and then place it under the table, while slowly drumming my fingers against the wood, “it’s not about my love life, nor about a past relationship the way you expect it or suspect it to be…” I feel fingers that aren’t mine grabbing my hand. Maybe it’s Demian’s way to tell me to calm down, maybe he’s being supportive… or maybe I’m drumming a bit too hard, and he just wants me to stop making noises. “It’s about my dad, to be honest.” Demian presses my hand even harder. I turn to my left, in order to take a glimpse of him; he nods because that’s his other way of being supportive. I keep talking. “You see, my old man was an idiot, I’d say other words, but I don’t know if I can without being censored, so… I just felt like writing this about him and the piece of shit he was...” The interviewer should look lost. Many would’ve, especially because of me speaking about the topic in such a straightforward way, with so much openness and, even worse, without looking like I care. Because I don’t; I stopped caring about the son of a bitch long ago. Instead, this interviewer just nods and carries on the whole thing as if I was referring to the most common matter.

“You speak about it in past tense… is he dead?”

You gotta appreciate her courage. A few would’ve dared to speak like that to me, to anyone they don’t know at all. But the thing in this music business is… they all know you —and they all don’t, at the same time. They all think they have the slightest bit of an idea of who you are just because you are in the spotlight, just because they take pictures of you hanging around random girls, boys, people, or because they take one of you at the supermarket, or buying jackets, or getting out of planes. They think they are entitled to the truth just because you give interviews, or because you play in stadiums in front of thousands because sometimes, just like this one, you are willing to discuss song lyrics’ meanings in public. Just because you speak about your life publicly it doesn’t make it any less yours, nor any more theirs.

“I really don’t know but he might as well be. He sure is for me, tho. And he sure has been for a long time…” The young woman seems genuinely interested in whatever else I have to say regarding my old man, and although I couldn’t care less about him, I’m willing to answer all her questions if it makes the interview end faster.

“Do you ever think he listens to the songs you write about him?” I’m looking at the woman at the moment, but I can sense Demian’s eyes roll in disbelief.

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” he interrupts, “but is there any chance we could change subjects?” I look at him, both flattened and unbothered, but he’s not looking at me.

“It’s all right…” I begin to say, my voice suddenly sinking in my throat, but he keeps talking, nevertheless.

“I mean it because we’re here to promote the record, not to talk about this…”

“I believe this is part of the record, isn’t it?” the woman asks. I look at Demian and make almost an invisible nod milliseconds before he can argue again.

“It is,” I answer the interviewer, looking at her once again, “but there’s honesty not much to talk about my old man; wherever he is now, I’m sure as hell he ain’t listening to our record, and much less realizing that song is about him. And no, I’ve never written any other song specifically about him, but the memories are something I carry around constantly… it doesn’t bother me, they don’t change me… they just make me who I am. And yeah, I wish I could’ve had a normal upbringing but sometimes life just ain’t the way we want it to be… life’s a bitch, but we mortals gotta keep on living…” I add, already looking away.

The interviewer says something else after that, but I don’t know what it is. Demian answers that one, as well as the following one. Although it’s not always like this, that time it’s just the two of us being interviewed.

I zone out for the majority of the remaining minutes. My mind wanders on and off, picturing old memories, as well as places I’ve been in, things I’ve never heard, people I actually never talked to. I picture situations that can never exist, and yet, that sometimes I wish that could. It’s a funny trick it does, my mind; to make me go through things that will never happen, to make me feel nervous or unsteady in advance, to prepare me for unpleasant and inexistent situations.

“One last question, for the both of you,” the interviewer says in the end, what makes my companion shake my hand a little bit, to remind me I’m supposed to be paying attention, so I quickly snap back to reality and turn to the interviewer, “what is it like to you both when you write music together?” I turn to look at Demian at the same time he turns to look at me. We’re two different persons, to different boys, and yet in moments like that we seem connected... we _are_ connected, indeed.

Demian is the first of us to laugh; he has this bright laughter, a laughter that could light up the entire room. I cannot see him and not smile, even if I don’t feel like it. This is one of those moments.

“To write music together it’s like...” he begins eyes wide open and one of the sweetest looks I’ve ever seen on his face. He grins, staring in my direction, and although it may look like he’s just grinning at the situation, _I know_ that grin has my name on it, “it’s magical, I’d dare to say.”

I smile even harder than before, as his thumb caresses my hand slowly.

“It’s magical indeed,” I answer, looking straight into the interviewer’s eyes. She then smiles and nods, as she finalizes the whole thing. She apologizes or tries to after we are done, after the cameras are off and the microphones shut. She says that, if I prefer it otherwise, that won’t come out in the official interview. Demian’s eyes look wide and hopeful, and I’m sure if it was up to him, he’d say he doesn’t want it to come out indeed, but it’s not up to him. And he knows it.

“It’s all right,” I reassure the young woman, “I don’t mind…” I truly do anyway. I mind a whole big deal. I mind and I care more than she will ever understand. And yet, a part of me wants this to come out because a part of me wants everyone to know me, it wants the attention and the knowing looks on people’s faces as I walk down the street —how fucked up is that? And, most important, a part of me likes to believe that if I talk about such topics, some young kid living the same shitty life I used to live as a youngster will realize shitty moments aren’t forever and, most important, that pain can be useful sometimes. I don’t mean it in a ‘let’s romanticize pain and all these shitty moments’, but I mean like… use the pain to create something else, and maybe help others. I like to believe I’m doing that, for what it’s worth.

We are free after a few more minutes and just as we slip inside the elevator, the pressure leaves my shoulders, my body, and my mind. And I start shaking. Uncontrollably, almost on the verge of tears. We are done with the interview, but I’m not done with its aftermath. I’m not done with the hangover and I’m definitely not done with how the interview and those questions made me feel and what they made me think of. I’m mad because while talking about it with the entire room, state or world I seem to hold it all together; I seem to be the perfect writer and the perfect musician when I have to put up with things like that accompanied with a pen, a paper and a couple of instruments, but in reality, I do all of that in order not to be alone with my thoughts. Sometimes, I’d rather share them.

I tremble as I push the button to make the elevator go from floor twenty to the lowest one. I want to leave the place as soon as I can. Everything in me is trembling; I can’t even run my hands through my hair. Luckily, Demian is there for me, there _with_ me; he runs his hands through my hair for me, he ruffles it a bit and then tries to arrange it, to comb it with his fingers —slowly, tenderly— the way he loves to do. And I let him because I know he loves to do it and I know he knows I love it, too. As he does it, he pulls me closer to him and begins to mumble something. “That’s it, we’re done...” he seems to be saying, “Shh, shh... that’s it, we’re done...” As he runs a hand through my hair, he has the other one around my shoulders, his thumb dancing across the back of my neck. “Hey, look at me, you all right?” he says, his soft and sweet breath speaking in my ear. I nod my eyes full of tears and my mind full of thoughts. “She didn’t have the right to—”

“It wasn’t her fault,” I say and even if I’m not looking at him in the eyes, I can feel them glaring at me not very nicely.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“She just... she didn’t mean it in a bad way... she apologized, and I just know it,” I add before he can say another word. I am now looking at him, deep into his blue eyes. We still have twelve floors to go.

“Are you feeling better now?”

“Yeah, your fingers are magical and so are your words...” He laughs, almost hysterically, although I haven’t said anything worthy of that reaction. I still know he’s doing it for me and me only, and I let him. I let him because it makes me feel good, as I let him do other things because of the same reason.

Eight floors to go.

“Glad to hear that,” he says, pulling me closer and kissing my head. I love it when he does that —kissing my head, or my forehead. It feels much more special than just kissing my lips, my neck, or my face in general. We stay like that for some seconds, my head buried in his neck, his chin over my head, and his arms around my body...

Three floors to go... two floors to go...

We leave the building and head towards a nearby cafe. We’re still both sort of hungover from last night, and coffee is always helpful. I can usually eat no matter how hungover I am —unlike Demian, who hates the sight or smell of anything that isn’t coffee, and yet occasionally steals some of my food, maybe some fries or a piece of toast.

I drink coffee and eat fries that morning (or should I say noon?). It’s almost twelve when we leave from the interview and about twelve and twenty when the coffee and the fries arrive at the table. The waitress is a lovely woman who happens to know nothing about us or the band (and if she does, she is one hell of a good actress), which makes the moment even more intimate —even being at a sort of public place in a busy hour.

“Are you more calmed?” Demian asks me, while he steals a fry from my plate. We have barely talked since we sat down since I was still trying to process everything that had happened. I look up at him and watch him eat it, a defiant look on his face and a seductive grin on his mouth.

“I feel...” I ran a hand through my face, tired. “I don’t know how I feel, honestly... but you were definitely helpful,” he laughs.

“Seriously, tho... that wasn’t right... the interviewer and...” I know he won’t stop talking about it. I know it because when something gets in his head it’s very difficult to take it out of it. But on occasions like this, everything for us can turn out like a fight. And I don’t want to fight, so I just... I let it be.

“Just let it be, man,” I cut him.

“ _Let it be, let it be...”_ he starts singing.

“... _whisper words of wisdom, let it be...”_ I join him. We hum the rest of the song as I eat and he occasionally steals my fries, as I drink coffee and he just drinks water. We hum the song at a public place, not caring about anything else but that moment, not caring about anything else but _us_.

That’s us. That’s our relationship. That’s what we do, that’s how we behave... that’s _who_ we are. We’ve been like that for as long as I can remember since the day we met; the connection was immediate, and I couldn’t have liked it any less.

By this time, our tour is already starting. We played three dates in New York, our hometown they call it, but I know it’s not _my_ hometown. It may be the band’s hometown since here everything began, but I come from Jersey —just like Springsteen, Sinatra, Bon Jovi, and India.

We are leaving for Boston the following morning. Luckily, we’ve got a pretty cool tour bus. Kyle, our manager, knows about these things, which makes me glad since we’ll spend pretty much the whole summer in there, and that’ll be our home until the leaves start falling again and heat decreases. What’s worse, we’ll visit Jersey after Boston… don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m not proud of or not love my hometown, but I haven’t put a foot on it since I left for New York about four years ago and I didn’t intend to come back until I felt like it. And now, Kyle, Rick, and Janice from the label and god knows how many more people in charge of our lives are making me go back there. And I really don’t want to sound or behave like a rockstar, or like the stereotype of a spoiled rockstar (and I hate that word more than anything, and I hate to use it speaking about myself), but… I wish I didn’t have to go there. Demian can play bass, maybe he could fill up for me. He could sing _and_ play bass at the same time… which wouldn’t be fair at all. But still, deep inside, I hope I get sick so I don’t have to get off the tour bus the whole time we’re in Jersey.

The worse thing about the tour buses is the bunks. There isn’t nearly enough personal room in there, and a curtain isn’t enough. Since we’re all equal here, none of us has a larger bed or a room for themselves; it wouldn’t be fair. So instead we’ve got bunk beds and a curtain… that damned curtain.

Demian and I usually share bunk beds. I take top and he takes bottom since he usually gets up earlier or more than I do; once I sunk in the bed, it’s hard to get me away from it. I’ll spend the whole night looking up to the ceiling if I can’t sleep, but I won’t up unless I urgently need to use the toilet.

Tour life makes insomniacs of many of us. Martin and Nick are two wild party animals and will bring as many girls as they can to celebrate in the tour bus, and Freddy will usually join them, and they’ll all drink, do drugs, and… what people call ‘rockstar stuff’. I usually hate that, because it means waking up in the morning and finding a bunch of strangers asleep rather than on the floor or one of the sofas. I hate that —not the booze or the drugs, but the strangers. Demian is some sort of a party animal as well, but only because he enjoys those two things as well. Once he’s taken the necessary amount of alcohol or drugs, he will retire and spend the rest of the night lying in bed, either trying to write some music or sleep. Sometimes it takes a while for him to fall asleep, and that’s why he stretches his arm up, to touch my bunk and reassure himself I’m still awake. I am, many times, and I pretend I am, many others. So, I either grab his hand and softly talk to him, or I get up and climb down into his bed. And there I try to make him sleep, mumbling song lyrics, poems, or anything I can come up with. Sometimes I try and tell him stories of my childhood —the happy ones, the ones worth being talked about. I tell him about my craziest dreams, my biggest aspirations, and funny things that had happened to me a long time ago, so long it barely felt real. I tell him about the things I liked as a kid —but not about the things I hated. I tell him about smells, tastes, touches, and sights, flashes on my memory that should be long forgotten but have remained there, for some reason.

I cry sometimes. I rarely do it in front of others, but _ours_ is such a special and intimate thing that I don’t really mind. Sometimes I cry because I’m just tired; others, I’m just done with the world. I’m done with everything and wishing I could be anywhere but there; maybe in Rome, because it seems to me now that it has become my place in the world. _Our_ place.

Some other times, I just cry because I feel like it. Those are the worst moments, the ones I hate the most. I was taught as a little kid I should never cry in front of others, that I should never cry at all, to begin with, and that’s why I only cry in the emptiness of the night, and that’s why I don’t let him see me. And yes, sometimes in a normal day my eyes will fill up with tears and will try as hard as they can to let them loose, but I’ve been practicing to keep the tears to myself my whole life; a few moments of weakness won’t defeat me. If holding back tears was an art, I’d be the Van Gogh of it, the Emily Dickinson, the David Bowie —I’d be a full artist; I’d be _the_ artist. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [let's chat on tumblr!](https://ilivejustinmyownworld.tumblr.com/)


	4. You are so loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3: You are so loved (AKA A First Glimpse At Gigs, Fans, And New Jersey)

“Hello Boston, how you doing?” Demian’s voice echoes inside the venue, answered by thousands of random voices echoing back. “We are Free the Doves and we are very, very pleased to meet you all!” More shouting, more screaming, more echoing.

Demian was born to do this. He has such a natural stage presence, a natural connection to the public and the fans, it’s almost unreal. He’s probably one of the most introverted guys I’ve ever met but, when engaging with the crowd, with our fans, he becomes someone else entirely. Booze often helps, but he is not drunk that night, so it all comes naturally. “My name is Demian and I’d like you all to meet some of my best friends in the entire universe…” he turns to Martin. “Our fantastic sometimes guitar player, sometimes violinist, Mister Martin Evans!” The crowd cheers, as he points at him. Martin starts playing the first twenty seconds of one of our songs, making the crowd go crazy. After he’s done, he blows a kiss to them, and they respond with even more screams. “The best drummer in the entire universe, Mister Nick Wallace!” More cheers. “Another guitar player and essential member of the band, because one isn’t nearly enough, Mister Freddy Jones!” He points at him, and he starts riffing to probably the best-well-known riff in the history of music, which is, of course, Deep Purple’s _Smoke on the Water_ , soon to be joined by both Martin and Nick for another fifteen or twenty seconds. Once they stop, Demian is pointing at me. “And last, but not least, my housemate, my buddy…” he smiles, still pointing at me. I know that smile.

It’s a smile made for me, only for me. It’s my smile. It’s not theirs, it doesn’t belong to any of them, to any of those waiting for him to say the following words, and for me to play some random bass riff… it’s a smile that belongs to me and me only. I won’t share that with them. I begin to smile as well… “Mister Matt Litter everybody!”

They scream.

They know my name.

They _love_ my name.

We tend to play a new song for each city or state we visit, or country, someday, I hope. In New York, where we started the tour, we played Talkin Heads’ _Road to Nowhere_ the first night, and Blondie’s _Call Me_ the last one. Now, in Boston, we play Letters to Cleo’s _I Want You to Want Me_. Martin and Demian begged the rest of us to play it, so we learned it, and agreed to it. Quite simple. The audience loves it, by the way —they love when we do this, they like to feel appreciated.

We play a few more songs.

The gig finishes about thirty minutes later.

We head straight to the tour bus that night. No one feels like partying —four nights in New York were enough.

Still, we don’t go to sleep right away. We chat for a couple of hours, as we play cards and make stupid bets as some random movie plays in the background. And we drink, of course.

“She called me again last night,” Martin says, as we start playing our second poker round, “she’s crazy, man...”

Martin has a stalker. At first, we laughed about it, but after months, literal months, it began to become alarming.

All we know is that some random girl allegedly named Gillian found, somehow, after stalking him and basically everyone he knows on Facebook, his address. And then his phone number. So, she started calling him randomly about three months ago; at first, it wasn’t something to worry about, because it could’ve been anyone, but then he realized it was all the same girl. He sort of talked to the police when he became fed up with her, but they couldn’t do much since he didn’t know who this girl was, so they told him to come back if it all kept on happening and that if he had an important amount of calls from her number, they’ll track her. But the thing is she kept calling from different numbers, some of the unknown. So, it’s just one hell of a problem.

“Talk to the police again,” Freddy suggests, but Martin just shakes his head.

“They won’t do shit, they never do… But I’m freaked out, what if she comes to one of our gigs?” The five of us look at each other. None of us had thought of it before.

“If she does,” Demian begins to say, taking a sip from his bottle, “we’ll finally know who she is.”

“So, cheer up,” I say, “we may catch her.” Nick laughs.

“Damn right we will…” he says.

“I don’t know what to think…” Martin says, thoughtful, “I mean… she’s batshit crazy, I can feel it.”

“Oh, trust me, we all can feel that,” I intervene. Demian makes a face that means ‘hey!’, as he slightly punches my arm. I shrug. “What? She’s a stalker; no person should be like that…”

“We’re gods among men,” Nick says next, leaning back on the couch, “that’s what we are for them…”

“Not that their behavior is still right,” Martin cuts him, grabbing a card.

“I never said that, but that’s how _they_ feel…” Nick shrugs, “and we can’t blame them… we truly are gods among men!” He screams next, drunkenly.

The next thing I know is that we start jumping around the place.

I don’t know how much it lasts, but then we’re on the floor.

We’re all drunk. We know that. We’re well aware of our drunkenness, the five of us. And drunk as we are, we’re lying on the floor, laughing uncontrollably.

Next time I wake up, I’m lying on Demian’s bunk. My head is resting on his chest and one of his arms is placed over my head as if he fell asleep caressing it.

I can hear Demian’s breathing in my ear, and I can’t help but wonder whether he is just sleeping, or if he’s dreaming as well. And if he is, what does he dream about? His family, perhaps, or his other friends? His life pre touring, pre-band? His past lovers? Past heartbreaks, perhaps? We never talked about it with great depth, but I know he got a few heartbreaks back at home when he was younger… I know most things about him, and I wish I could learn them all over again.

I never loved many people in my life, but I’m certain I love Demian. I love all of them, the boys, the Free the Dovesboys, _my_ boys, my band... But Demian is something else, he’s just… _especial_ , that’s the thing with him.

I slowly untangle myself to get up; the bus seems to have stopped and I have no idea where we are. Are we in Jersey yet? The whole thing —meaning going back there after so many years— is making me sick, by the way... But before I can leave the bunk bed, a hand grabs my t-shirt and pulls me back against the mattress.

I can’t help but to smile.

“Did I wake you up?” I ask him, lying next to him once again. Bunk beds inside tour buses are the most uncomfortable thing in the universe when it comes to two people sharing, but we get by —we always have, and I’m certain we always will.

Demian doesn’t answer my question, but I’m sure I did, in fact, wake him up.

“I hate this bus,” it’s all he says.

“What has it done to you?” He tries to shake his head as he closes his eyes.

“It’s just… I don’t know,” he’s still sleepy, so he isn’t probably even aware of what he’s saying. I take a deep breath. “Today’s my sister’s birthday,” he says, eyes still closed, “and on Sunday it’ll be my grandma’s… I want to be back home, to be honest…” I nod, slowly, even if he cannot see me do it.

So that’s what it’s all about…

I don’t know how these things work since I never had much of an actual family, but I know Demian has a big family, full of brothers, cousins, uncles, and grandparents. He’s a lucky guy in that sense since family doesn’t always mean blood and blood doesn’t always mean family… although his family looks like it does.

I was lucky enough to visit his family down in Cleveland a couple of times. The first time we were just passing by and the boys and I accompanied him to visit them. It’s probably the coolest family I’ve ever met, like ever. When we came back from Rome, we went to visit them as well, since it was Demian’s mom's fiftieth birthday. We stayed there for a week and, by the end of it, I didn’t want to leave. I had never felt so… taken care of in my entire life, and that place and those persons just made me feel almost loved.

If Demian’s grandma’s birthday was on Sunday, it meant we were supposed to be… around Pittsburgh by then. And Pittsburgh isn’t very far from Cleveland… I think. And after that gig… I think the following one is on Tuesday, although I cannot be certain… anyway, maybe he could make it…

“Maybe you could go…” I tell him, almost whispering. He opens his eyes. He looks so tired, and yet, he also looks like he doesn’t care, at least not right now.

“What?”

“To visit your grandma… on Sunday… for her birthday…” I say, slowly. He seems to think about it.

“Would you come with me?” I feel the need to laugh, although I don’t do it. Is he really asking me to do… that?

“Would I go where?”

“To visit my grandma… on Sunday… for her eightieth birthday…” he repeats my phrases, still sleepy.

“And how on Earth will we get there, Dems?”

“By car?” I think about it for a second. “We’ll rent one... but please, _please_ come with me... _please_ ,” he begs, one more time.

He shouldn’t have to beg. It was enough, more than enough actually, for me to hear him asking it once. Damn, he could ask me to accompany him to the Moon and I’d follow him blindly.

I’ve heard once about this sort of theory of meeting your loved one in a past life. Like, some sort of soulmate theory, if such things exist; the thing is, this theory said that you meet your soulmate in every life you have, past, present, and future.

And that means then, that Demian and I met before. A million times before.

I never actually stopped to think if soulmates existed or not, if they could or couldn’t be real… And yet, I _know_ they exist because I am Demian’s and he is mine.

I just know it. I feel it, in the depths of my mind, my bones, and my heart.

“Say yes,” he asks me. I smile.

“Of course. I wouldn’t dare to miss one of those birthday cakes your mom cooks...” he smiles a bit more.

“No, you wouldn’t....” he speaks almost in whispers. I kiss him on the lips. “So, it’s all settled. I’ll talk to Kyle later…”

“What you’ll tell him?”

“That we’re going to a birthday party...” I smile.

“It looks like _we_ are then...” I kiss him on the lips again. And again... and again. I finally manage to leave his arms, his hands, and his lips, even if I don’t want to. “I’ll get up now, buddy...” I tell him, whispering. “I need to see why we’ve stopped...”

I get out of bed and walk towards the front, where our driver, Mike, is seated... but not driving. “Hey,” I say. Mike looks up at me.

“Hey, kid, how you doing? Slept all right?”

“Yeah, thanks, man...” I lie. I didn’t sleep all right. I mean I did, for a couple of hours, but now I can’t keep on sleeping. But I save that to myself, all my misery… I don’t intend to share it with anyone else… it wouldn’t be fair, not at all. “Why are we... stopped?”

“Because Kyle wanted to buy some stuff... he’s taking his time tho,” he adds with a smirk. I smirk back, not being exactly sure of what he means. Outside the sky looks as if it has dawned less than an hour ago.

“What time is it?”

“Almost seven...”

“We still have much to go?”

“Uh, less than two hours if traffic’s nice enough...” I nod. He looks up at me. “You good, kid?”

“Yeah, yeah... just tired... still tired...” I look at him. “You good?” He smiles at me.

“I am, thanks.” I nod and go back to the back of the bus. I check on the boys; still asleep. They look as if they passed out.

I feel I’m about to throw up. I feel dizzy, I feel bad and I feel nervous. It’s the anxiety, I believe —maybe even an anxiety attack. I’ve heard a lot about anxiety attacks and no one ever told me I suffered from anxiety or even panic attacks, but I’m one hundred percent certain I’ve been dealing with them for quite a while now. I have the feeling of wanting to throw up, the feeling of not knowing what to do with the dizziness, the sweaty palms, the shaking legs, and the head full of thoughts.

It used to happen to me before getting on stage sometimes. Those first times on tour, those first nights and evenings. Booze started to be helpful, but I sort of hate being drunk on stage because I hate not being in control of my own body —that’s why I hate being high too. I always thought it was kinda disrespectful to show up _really_ high or drunk in front of people who are literally paying you for your work, especially if you mess up or have a risk of messing up the whole show. I couldn’t do it, but some people can manage. And, what’s worse, some of them manage to perform even better than when sober. Lucky bastards…

The anxiety attack finally kicks in. I feel I’m about to throw up. I feel I’m about to faint, I feel like I’m losing my mind. Nothing makes sense. I can’t even make it to my bunk —everything is circling around me. I feel every single shitty emotion all at once, like an avalanche, ready to make me lose my mind. I need to sit down on the floor —I can’t even make it to my own bunk. I don’t know what else is going on, I don’t know where everybody else is, I don’t even care. I try to take a deep breath… let the air leave my mouth… and take another deep breath… but it’s impossible. I can’t do it any longer. I feel like I’m about to faint. I can’t talk about this to anyone —they’ll think I’m crazy. I close my eyes and try to relax once again.

I get up slowly. Everything’s dizzy again, my palms are sweaty, and my legs are trembling. I walk towards the bathroom, and I find Nick exiting it.

“Hey man,” he says, sleepy.

“Hey,” I try to smile… but failing miserably.

“You okay?” he asks me, concerned.

No, I’m not okay.

I’m in the middle of an anxiety attack, and we’re about to reach New Jersey, a place I never thought I’d return to… not this fast at least.

“I’m—” I can’t finish the phrase. Kyle comes back to the bus. I don’t see him, but I hear him; in a matter of seconds, we’re on the road again.

“Matt, you all right?” I manage to nod. I don’t know how I do it. Nick might be still drunk, but no one can deny he’s one hell of a friend.

“I’m fine,” I lie, “I’m about to throw up, that’s it…” That’s not a lie, not at all, but it still feels like it. It feels like a horrible lie and I feel like a horrible liar. I feel like shit for lying to him about that, but what else could I do?

“Try to make it to the toilet…” he says, opening the door for me. I don’t know if he says something else, but I can’t hear him; I’ve closed the door already.

I sit on the floor and begin to sob. I can’t believe I’m crying inside a tour bus’s bathroom, at seven in the morning. I can’t believe I’m almost there, in Jersey. I can’t believe I keep having those damned anxiety or panic attacks, whatever they’re called. I can’t wait to get to the hotel… we’ll stay in a hotel for the night? I don’t know, really, but I hope we do. I need my space… I need it so badly.

I keep on crying, sobbing, and weeping. I keep on doing that in the solitude of the bathroom since only there I can allow myself to break down in peace. I don’t need anyone to see me, I don’t want anyone to watch me… I just need peace.

My phone is in my pocket since last night probably. I want to grab it and start writing in it, but I’m unable to do as I please; my hands are way too shaky and way too sweaty… so I just wait. I wait until the tears stop forming and the salty water stops streaming; I wait until I’m able to breathe again, to stop feeling as I’m about to die.

I want Demian there with me. I was told as a kid I should never cry, and much less cry in front of others, and even if I’ve silently cried in front of Demian, in the emptiness of the night, I want him there to console me. I don’t need anything more and I don’t need anything less.

But I cannot walk towards him and wake him up — _that_ I cannot do.

I can’t walk towards his bunk; I can’t wake him up and I can’t tell him I feel bad. I can’t tell him I feel like I’m about to pass out, to go crazy, and to throw up. I can’t bring myself to bother him, to wake him up from his sleep, because I know he’s sleeping. I know he went back to sleep after I left the bunk, I know it because I know him, maybe even better than he knows himself.

I can’t recall how long I spend inside the bathroom. A minute? Probably longer than that. An hour? Probably lesser than that. When I step out of the bathroom, daylight has invaded the bus. We keep the windows and curtains closed most of the time, but it’s impossible not to notice it at some point. The boys seem to still be asleep, although Nick is now on his bed, apparently. I approach to where our beds are… yes, he’s there, curtain half closed, and he’s snoring. I hate it when people snore, and I’m honestly grateful Demian doesn’t. I couldn’t hate him even if he did snore, but… still grateful.

As I’m about to climb to my bed, a hand grabs my wrist.

I close my eyes. I’ve been crying and I don’t want him to see me like this, it’s enough Nick had to deal with me almost breaking down in front of him… And yet I turn around, as I always do. I turn to look at him, as usual. I’ve always done that, and I will probably keep doing that. I see a pale, naked arm coming out of the curtain, already grabbing my hand, and I have to open said curtain a little to look at him. He’s sat against the wall now, his knees against his chest. He has a sleepy look on his face, mixed with a worrisome one.

“What?” I ask him, whispering.

“Nick said you were throwing up,” he admits. I roll my eyes. I love Nick, he’s one of my best friends, he truly is, and I could never do anything to hurt him or let him down. And yet, I want to punch him in the face right now.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t,” I tell him, “you can check for yourself,” I add. He smirks, still sleepy.

I end up sitting on the bed next to him, his hand holding mine as he caresses it slowly, tenderly. “I don’t want to get off this bus,” I tell him, as I ran a hand through my hair, “I don’t want to play in Jersey, I don’t— I don’t want to do it,” I look at him in the eyes, “ _please_ don’t make me do it, Dems…” I add, pleading.

“You know we have to go and play… for all of them…” he is whispering. He talks as if he was choosing his words carefully, almost with tenderness. I can’t expect any less from him, to be honest.

“I know,” I answer. I don’t want to do disappoint the fans, but I don’t want to play live either. If I could grab them all, fans, and magically make them appear anywhere _but_ New Jersey, I’d do it. Hell, I’d pay a ticket for them, for each one of them, plus a mean of transport for them to get to our next venue, everywhere _but_ in Jersey.

But I can’t do that. Kyle won’t let me, neither will Janice. Those are the responsible, adult, businesspeople who travel with us, and they won’t let me do that. I could try and explain to them what would mean for me to get away from Jersey as soon as possible, but I don’t think I can put myself through that.

Instead, I just rest my head on Demian’s shoulder and I press his hand against my chest, as I tend to do.

“Did Nick wake you up?” I ask him, eyes still closed.

“Nah, I was sort of… half awake, half asleep,” he confesses to me, although I don’t believe him, “but you’re okay?”

“Uh-huh,” I answer. I’m actually pretty far from okay, but… what else can I do?

I feel a kick in my stomach. An _actual_ kick. It sinks in, it leaves me breathless again, and it makes me feel like I’m about to throw up once again.

“I want to go home,” I add, less than a minute after. Because that’s all I want to do, to be honest —to leave Jersey, or every vicinity to it, I don’t even know where we are. I want to go back to New York, to our fifth-floor apartment, and I want to lay down for a few days, weeks, or years… or maybe not, that would be to exaggerate. But I do want to get out of here, to skip tonight’s gig… and that I want more than anything.

“It’d be alright, buddy,” Demian tells me, “it’s not like you’ve got— you know…” Yes, I know. It’s not like I’ve got to go back home, it’s not like I’ve got to meet my old man again, it’s not like I’ve got to deal with all that shit… and yet, it feels like it.

“You said you’d show me every single cool place in your hometown,” he adds, as I roll my eyes, “won’t you?” I nod because I cannot break _that_ promise.

“I know,” I keep saying, “but, like— What if…?” I can’t keep talking —I’m not brave enough.

I’m not brave enough to break his heart —or to attempt to do so. I’m not brave enough to dare to even play with his heart, so I just stop talking.

My heart, on the other side, has been broken for quite a long time, and only now I’d dare to say it has begun to fix.

In the end, we get to Jersey, we leave our stuff in the hotel, and then, I do as I promised and I take Demian for a city tour… or sorts.

By the way, no one outside our band and family knows about us, Demian and I. And the reason for that is that… well, we just don’t want people taking pictures of us everywhere we go to, magazines write articles about our personal lives, people that have nothing to do with us, people that mean nothing to us, writing and speculating about our issues, our issues, our personal lives… The label doesn’t care much, although we used to think it would; the only thing they told us about this whole relationship issue (to the five of us, not just to Demian and I), is that artists who look ‘available’ sell more and sell better. I don’t even like that word, ‘available’… it sounds as if we were for sale, you know what I mean? And the music industry can be the shittiest thing ever, we all know that, but I choose to draw the line at someplace, and that’s where I draw it. I am in control of my personal life, me, not them, which means that I get to choose… and yes, I chose to not speak about it, but not because they told me not to, but because I don’t care for curious looks and random people getting involved… I just don’t.

But, I’d be a liar if I said that during our first time together (and I don’t even know what Demian and I are, by the way, because we never quite put a name to it), we sort of kept the whole thing to ourselves. And not because we could get in trouble with the label, but because we (or maybe should I say _I_?) were afraid the rest of our bandmates would… well, be not happy. Like, imagine we broke up or something, what would happen to the band? Quite a big concern, right? Well, the thing is, we ended up telling them, and that’s the last thing they mentioned about the whole thing! So maybe it’s me who, anxious as I am, was afraid of that… or is afraid of that. The label is another thing, but we never talked to them either, first because they don’t care, and second, because they could use it for their benefit… music industry can be actually shitty, remember? They could even advertise the whole thing! They do that —businesspeople. It’s the world we live in, after all. _Money makes the world go round_ … it’s all I can think about, Liza Minnelli’s voice inside my head, sticking in my thoughts for the rest of the day. Anyway, we couldn’t take that risk to… just become a part of the band’s marketing, or to shape everything in order to fit inside the label’s wishes. So yeah, they eventually found out, and they sort of gave us a talk about the future of the band, and how our business shouldn’t interfere with it… and yeah, they told us to keep it all to ourselves if we didn’t want paparazzi following us around and stuff, and took it quite well, but… well, what can I say? Better be safe than sorry.

Anyway, I take Demian to visit New Jersey. We walk for a few hours, as we talk about how on Earth we’ll tell Kyle, about planning to leave for Cleveland… although we all gave plans for those days. I mean, Nick has some sort of… I can’t call her ‘girlfriend’, nor groupie, so I’ll just call her ‘friend’ who drove from I don’t know where to meet him there in Pittsburg, so he’ll be pretty busy; Martin will find friends because he has or makes friends everywhere and Freddy will probably make friend of his friends, or find some girl to hook up with… so I guess we’ll all be pretty busy on Sunday. And Sunday is two days far…

That night in Jersey we’ll play in a sold-out venue. We’re starting to get used to these things, although it doesn’t always happen.

I feel quite hopeful, even cheerful, so I step outside in the hotel and greet the fans. I love the fans, I honestly do, but sometimes I’m just… I’m not in the mood for greeting any of them, nor for meeting any of them. Sometimes, all you long for is a long, hot shower, a nice nap, and watching TV for a while —normal stuff. But that day I’m strangely hopeful, so I decided to spend some time there with them. Besides, what else could I do there in Jersey? Visit my old house? No thanks… I’d never dare to even go near that place again. It’s not that I don’t my hometown, my neighborhood, or whatever, it’s just… I don’t want to be near him and all of those memories… I’ve got enough of _them_ tormenting me without being physically here, so… yeah, all I want to do is to stay hidden somewhere all day.

And yet, there’s one thing about Jersey I’d like to see, to visit. It’s not something that will make me feel the best possible way, to be honest, but it’s something I need to do, nevertheless… someone I need to visit nevertheless.

“We have a special treat for you tonight…” Demian says, after drinking a few sips of beer. “You know we’re playing in Jersey for the first time, right?” The crowd cheers. I begin to feel bad again, but I try to focus. “Well, many musicians come from here, did you know that? You’re all lucky you get to share your hometown with some of the greatest people this industry has ever know… Sinatra, Bon Jovi, My Chemical Romance, The Smashing Pumpkins, Springsteen —the ‘Boss’ himself—, just to name a few… and, my personal favorite, Mister Matt Litter…” he points at me. The lights all point at me. I smile, a bit embarrassed. I don’t understand anything of what’s going on, but I still focus on Demian and smile. “Well, uh… we’re gonna do something quite special for him tonight, because this is his hometown… so, buddy,” he adds, walking towards me with a little… stool in his hand that he places next to me, “sit down and relax…” I look at him, not knowing what on Earth is going on. “New Jersey is Matt fucking Litter’s hometown, how ‘bout that, huh?! You should feel excited to share the same hometown with him…” the crowd cheers once again, even louder. I lean towards him.

“What the fuck is going on?” I ask him, but all he does is force me to sit down, so I naturally obey.

The thing is, Demian managed to (apparently) convince the boys to learn a song, one of my favorite songs, and to play it for me tonight… as a surprise. And I won’t tell which song it is because it’s _my_ song, but… it might be the best thing that has ever happen to me on New Jersey ground, that’s for sure.

I begin to snap my fingers as Demian sings, just for the sake of doing something, just for the sake of making myself feel useful, even if he’s making a whole and full venue sing that beautiful and special song just for me. He’s a natural-born performer; he could even make a career in Broadway if he wanted to. He was born to perform in front of others and for others as well —at this moment, I can’t believe he’s performing for me and only for me.

Earlier today I took Demian to my high school to ask for a few indications. A few teachers recognized me, although the one I wanted to see wasn’t there. A few students recognized me as well. I took a couple of photos, signed a couple of autographs, and then, went to the place I wanted to go to.

I gotta appreciate Demian’s effort to put up with me and my things, to be honest.

We ended up in a graveyard. I arrived holding a bouquet that I only put down, gently, once we reached the grave we were looking for.

“She was my English teacher through almost all of high school,” I told Demian, without even looking up at him. I only had eyes for the name written on the grave, “she was…” I had to swallow my tears. “She loved my writing and just… pushed me to be better. I must’ve been the most infuriating student to have in class,” I explained to him, smiling as I recalled those past days, long done but not forgotten, not at all. “I was lazy, I didn’t do homework… but, oh, if we had to read a book, I was the first one to finish it. If we had to write some stories, some poetry, it was me who had it already written the day after… and she loved my writing, or so she told me… India, she recommended me, in total, forty-nine books, and I’ve read them all… some of them more than once.” I know Demian listened to the entire conversation, even if he didn’t say a word. “She got sick over the last months of high school. We talked via e-mail for a while, and she even wrote to me saying she had already bought our album… first day it was out, she bought it. When we came back from Europe… that’s when I heard what happened. She used to write us all, students, letters for Christmas… and the Christmas after she passed away, I received one of her letters… her last one…” I knew he knew that already, because we live together and because he was the one who found it on the mailbox. Yet, I like to talk about these things with him, even when my eyes are filled with tears and my throat is about to collapse from the knot it’s trying to hold together. “I really miss her… I didn’t have the chance to…”

That’s the moment I completely broke down. I cried and I sobbed, and I didn’t care I was in plain sight, at a sort of public place, or that Demian was there to see me.

I cried and let it all go, slowly, as tears streamed down my face.

At first, I tried to make them disappear by reaching them with my shaky fingers, but I was not able to do it.

Demian was there, luckily. He’s always there when I need him.

He’s there when I need to write, get out, get drunk, get high, get laid, but also when I need to get further than that; when I need to get better, basically.

I don’t know how long we stayed there, or how much I talked, but I know Demian was there, and honestly, I didn’t need any less than that.

Now all of that’s another New Jersey memory of mine. That’s fixed on my mind now, for better or for worse…

I come back to reality.

Demian still sings. Demian’s still here.

A venue full of people singing, or just waving their arms to its rhythm, is there as well. And they’re doing it for me.

There are still five songs to go, and I play them like crazy. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled that much at another gig, not even at our first one.

I dedicate the following song to _her_.

I know —because they talked about it when I visited my old high school earlier that day— that some students are here. I don’t know if they understand the reference, I don’t even know if they ever met, or heard from her, but I still go ahead and dedicate the last song to my teacher, the best teacher I ever had.

In the end, before we play our last song, I grab my microphone and engage a small talk with the crowd.

“Hello, guys,” I say, delighted look on my face, “how you doing?” They answer. They scream, they wave their arms. Probably tomorrow I’ll go back to my usual mild and guarded persona, but right now… right now I won’t let my mind win. Not tonight. “Hey, listen… I’d like to dedicate this song to you…” they scream even louder if that’s possible. “Yeah, that’s right. I’d like to dedicate it to every single one of you —to the ones who live here and to the ones who drove miles to get here; to the ones that came with a loved one and to the ones who are missing a loved one right now; to the ones that feel lonely until they turn on the radio, or until they come to gigs like this one... I’d like to dedicate this song to all of you who have a dream,” I add, after the other wave of screams is done, “to anyone who feels they don’t belong or they don’t fit in… you all fit here, I promise you that. So anytime, anywhere, you feel like you don’t belong —I’d advise you to turn on the volume and play this song.”

We play the last song.

It’s a hopeful song, a great one, one I’m the proudest of.

I feel the love from the crowd that night. I feel their tears of joy and their happiness coming from below.

And I accept them. I embrace them. I cherish them.

I love them, all of them. I love my fans, and I love the fact they love our music almost as much as we do. Every band says they have the best fans in the world but… maybe _we_ truly do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [let's chat on tumblr!](https://ilivejustinmyownworld.tumblr.com/)


	5. Home is where your heart is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4: Home is where your heart is (or, An Introduction To Demian's Family And A Few Of Matt Litter's Inner Demons)

We play our show in Pittsburgh on Saturday night. Then, we go straight to the hotel. Demian and I order room service and stay in the bed all night, eating and watching TV. He's way too tired to do anything else, even going out to party, and I'm way too anxious. So, instead, we watch TV.

We watch a really old movie and fall asleep soon after it has finished. Usually, when I sleep alone, I leave the tv on, even with very little sound on, just to remind myself that I'm not as alone or as lonely as I feel I am.

But with Demian, I don't need that. I know he's there with and for me.

He falls asleep first, his nose plastered to my neck. I pull the covers over us, since the air conditioner in the hotels is often quite cold, even in the warmest of summers or moments, and the unintentional touch of it over Demian's cheek makes him nuzzle closer to my neck.

"Sorry," I say under my breath, as I finish accommodating the covers.

"Hmm," is all he responds. He doesn't even need to open his eyes. One of my arms is wrapped around him and, as he speaks (or mumbles, more like it) I pull him closer.

"Sleep well," it's the last thing I tell him, before closing my eyes and falling asleep myself.

The next day, we rent a Toyota and head to Cleveland.

It's an almost two-hour-long journey, but we don't mind. We spend it singing, making music, and laughing —making good memories.

Demian's parents' house is probably my favorite house in the universe. It's a big, two-floor house on the outside of Cleveland. It has a wide yard at the front, full of flowers and pretty plants. The house is painted in blue and has a nice porch and some nice white columns. I'd love to have been brought up in such a place, and I'm even envious of Demian because of having had the chance.

Demian turns on the music as soon as we leave Pittsburgh. I hate listening to the radio because I hate listening to songs I don't like, and that's why Demian connects his phone to the car and lets me shuffle through the music the entire ride as he drives.

When I first came here after Rome, I didn't know what we would tell Demian's family about our relationship. I mean, not because of the relationship per se, but because of the fact... it didn't have a name, an official therm. Okay, so we still don't have an official term for whatever this thing going on between us means. It's more than writing songs, hooking up... it's more than snogging, as they'd say in the UK... And yet, we have a _thing_ going on, but we've never bothered to name it. We are certainly not dating, and yet we don't date anyone else. We're not boyfriends and yet, we don't date anyone else. We're 'exclusive' for almost everything. We're literal companions, companions for life... but we never put a name on us —what are we then? We could say we're soulmates, although I don't think that's official terminology...

Having ' _something'_ going on can mean _everything_ and nothing at the same time. For us, it means _everything_. It's who we are, it's how we behave, it's how we relate with one another. It's everything for us, this strange and unnamed relationship. It's something we never planned, but yet it happened. Something that means the world for us and something, I'd like to believe —or hope— will keep meaning the world for us many years from now. Maybe Demian's right; maybe we'll keep playing together, and with the boys, as the Doves, for years from now. There's no way of knowing it quite yet, but I can feel it. I just hope I'm right. My thing with Demian, in any case, is more than just hooking up when drunk, or writing songs when sober. It's also more than hooking up when sober and writing songs when drunk —is a relationship without being named as such. But does naming it make a relationship more valid than not naming it? If the people feel the same way, with or without an official name, and if the love is the same... what should naming it change? Not much, if you ask me.

Of course, I could also say this has a little —or much— to do with past relationships in my life. Not really with girls or boys, or strictly romantic more like it, because I've never had anything serious until now (this thing between us has no name... and yet we dare to call it serious... see what I just said about naming it?), but it has to do with past relationships I've been involved in, past relationships I've witnessed...

My parents are an example. I don't remember much about my mom because she got tired of the life she was living and left when I was seven. I know she probably had her many reasons (my parents argued, fought, and yelled at each other all day long), but still... not a very good relationship to have present. And they were married, weren't they? An official title does not make a relationship better, that's the proof —and an unofficial title does not make a relationship any less valid.

And yet, that's the main reason I'm terrified because I don't want what happened to my parents to happen to us. I don't want to live the way they lived, and I don't want a relationship that turns to shit just because the two persons involved can't stop yelling over stupid things, complaining about everything the other one does, and, worst of all, fighting. Fighting with their voices and with their hands. I don't want that; I don't wish for that... but I _fear_ that. I fear _becoming_ that. Maybe that's why I don't want to officiate anything with Demian —what if we turn out to be like that, like my parents? I'm sure as hell I don't want to turn out like my dad, I already hate myself enough because of the fact I'm his son, because of the fact I carry his last name and half of my DNA is his DNA, but... I'm still terrified.

We leave the car as soon as it's parked. On many other occasions, I'd ask him for a couple of minutes to wrap my mind around the idea of being in a certain place but... this house is not a certain place. Is Demian's family house. It's Demian's family —and sort of my family as well, even if I've seen them like seven times.

It's eleven in the morning, eleven and ten minutes. We only brought a couple of things, although we're staying only for a night.

Demian's sister, Ada, is the one that sees us arrive. She's seventeen; she turned seventeen a couple of days ago. Her brother loves her like crazy and she loves her brother —but who doesn't love her brother, I mean, who can blame her? She seems to see us through the window and before we can even approach the porch, she's already opening the door and running towards Demian. She's a tall girl, almost as tall as he is, with long red hair and pretty eyes. I never had a sister, never wished for one; I always thought kids were hard to stand and that they were a lot of hard job, even without being their parent, so I basically dislike everyone who's two years younger than me or more... but Ada might just be the exception. Not that she was from the start, but she soon became one. She's a normal teenage girl; it's not even that she's mature for a seventeen-year-old or anything... she's just a nice kid. Every kid in Demian's family is, to be honest, but especially Ada.

"Hey!" she screams, ecstatic, as she runs towards her brother to give him the biggest of hugs. He squishes her in his arms, pleased to see her.

"Ada, I missed you! How you've been?" he takes a few steps back to get a proper look at her, "Look at you! You look great! Very tall, you'll ever stop growing?" She smiles and hugs him once again. Once they separate, she walks towards me and gives me another big hug.

I never really liked hugs, if I'm honest, and I never quite liked them because I couldn't feel totally comfortable with them... I mean, I grew up without anyone to give them to me, so... let's say I sort of grew to resent them.

That was until Demian came into my life. And then his family came into mine, or I into theirs... anyway, I believe I'm learning to love hugs as days go by...

"How you doin' Ada?" I ask her, smiling unconsciously, as I squeeze her. "Happy belated birthday, by the way," I add, as I let her go.

"I'm great, thank you. And thank you for remembering!" I smile a bit more.

"'Course I did," I say, as she smiles. She's got her brother's smile —big, white teeth smile.

"Let's get inside, c'mon..." Demian hurries her, "I've heard we've got a lot to do..."

"Yes, we do, but talking is one of them. You need to tell me everything about the tour... about the gigs and the venues," she insists, as Demian makes a gesture for me to follow him inside, "I want to know!"

"What do you want to know, Ada?" he asks, as she follows.

"Well, _everything_..."

"That'll be a long conversation..."

"Your brother's a bit of a bummer sometimes," I tell the kid, as she looks at me with illusion and Demian attempts to kick me, as he laughs.

"So, you'll tell me, right?" Ada asks as we enter the house.

"Don't know if _everything_... but I'll try my best," I assure her, gaining a cheerful and excited smile from her.

The lounge is the first part of the house we come across. I already know that place by heart, but I still find myself admiring it all as fast as my eyes can. At my right, I find sofas, a library, a television, a couple of armchairs, and the dining room, consisting of a large table for about ten people. At my left or, actually, where I'm standing, there's some sort of hall that will either lead you to the main stairs or the kitchen.

"Where are mom and dad?" Demian asks his sister, before making his way further than the living room.

"Outside, everyone's outside... C'mon, go say hi," she insists, walking towards the kitchen. I look at Demian, a grin on my face.

"I've missed this place," I confess as he smiles, almost proudly, as we follow Ada into the kitchen.

"Hey, mom, hi!" he greets a woman standing with a pile of plates in her hands, almost about to exit the kitchen using the backdoor, to go to the backyard, where, from what I can see through the windows, the party is being prepared.

"Oh, you're here!" She says, pleased. His son smiles at her and she puts the plates down on the table, so she can be able to squish him in her arms. She asks him how he's been, she ruffles his hair and tells him how grown he looks —she even tells him how thin he looks. They chat for a couple of moments until she walks towards me. "How you've been, Matt?" she asks me, before hugging me as well, to which I respond with a bit of delay, but I respond and that's all that matters.

"Hey, thanks for having me here," I say, awkwardly. She smiles at me —her too.

"You are kidding me? How couldn't we? You're practically one of us at this stage," the remark makes me smile even harder than before, and then I follow her outside. Demian's already there, chatting with his dad. His grandparents are there as well, and even if Demian's mom sort of introduces me to them once again, I know by the looks on their faces that —luckily— they remember me.

Demian's grandpa is an eighty-one-year-old man with black hair, round glasses, and a taste for colorful shirts. He was a chess champion years ago, as well as an avid golfer. Even if he doesn't do the latter anymore, he's still a great chess player. I never had enough focus to play any of those games, but chess? Chess I love. The last time I was here I'd spend entire afternoons playing chess with him, as well as entire nights playing against Demian, who basically self-proclaimed himself the best chess player in the family. It's funny, because while on tour, my afternoons or nights are just... gigs, booze, drugs, clubs, and hanging out with random people. And yet, once I'm here, in this house, I become an almost normal man. Funny thing is, again, that even if I love making music and living on that, sometimes I hate the life I lead. And funny thing _again_ , I don't think I could get used to living without that life... we'll see about that, anyway...

Demian's dad is a tall man who enjoys cooking for everyone all the time, a doctor with a degree in not only medicine but philosophy as well —don't ask me how he did it, but I can't help but envy him. He knows so much about practically everything, and it makes me feel I'm the less cool person in the room.

Demian's grandma, on the other hand, is an eighty-year-old woman with a passion for both music and books. She was a pianist, back in the day, and taught Demian to play the piano, and then he taught me to play it. She's a great pianist, by the way, and so is her grandson. I, on the other hand, have not so much talent for the instrument, but I love it when Demian plays the piano for me. We have a piano at home, a big old piano he bought at an auction, I can't remember where. It's a classic, he says, played by I don't know who, supposedly. I don't care who played it before him, tho, whether it was Mozart or Chopin, but none of them will ever play it as Demian does, I'm certain of that.

"Matt, dear, I'm so glad you could come," his grandma (simply 'Gran', she forces me to call her like that, as all her grandchildren do) tells me, as I greet her.

"I'm glad to see you, happy birthday, Gran..." I tell her, with a quick hug.

"Thank you, dear. How are you these days? Everything is fine?" I nod.

"Yeah, everything just fine..."

It isn't all just fine, and it hasn't been for a while now... and yet, right there, I feel fine. I know I'm not _fine_ because I never am, but... I feel fine. I feel _safe_.

We're supposed to stay there for the night. I didn't know that for sure, although I suspected it.

Demian's mom leads us upstairs, into Demian's older room. I never stayed in Demian's room —I used to stay in the guest room—, but now his cousins will stay there, so... we'll have to share. It's honestly not a big problem for me, since Demian and I have been sharing everything, from an apartment to a tour bus —and from joints to showers.

"I know you guys won't mind about this," Demian's mom, Felicia, is saying to us, as we climb up the stairs, "but the only room available is Demian's old one... the girls," she means her nieces, by the way, "are here until August so the guest room is occupied... I wish I could give you more space, Matt, but—"

"It's all right," I tell her, and I'm honestly lying —it's more than alright.

"Yeah, don't worry about it, we're used to this. Sharing is caring, right?" Demian says, and I give him one of those looks that mean 'I can't believe you just said that', but he just winks. My god, I'm about to wish for the earth to swallow me and make me disappear... it's a good thing his mom left a second ago to look for clean towers. "What?" Demian says while staring at me. I say nothing, but I know he knows what it means.

"I'll let you make yourselves comfortable for ten minutes and then you'll have to come down to help..." she says, as she comes back and leaves them over the bed. Demian agrees, and I nod.

"Sure, we will," I assure her. She smiles and pats her son on the shoulder before we can enter his old room.

"I'm glad to have you home," she says to him, the biggest grin on her face, "to have you both here... _home,_ " she adds, glancing at me. I glance back, more than pleased, as she heads down the stairs.

Demian and I step inside his old room. I've seen it more than once, but still, it'll never stop amazing me. There's a bed in the middle of the room, with the towels folded over it

I walk through the room, curious, even if I know everything that it's to know in there.

"God, I love this room... it's so filled with light," I tell him, taking a look at his desk, still filled with old books and pencils.

"Yeah, I hated it," he confesses to me, taking a look as well.

"Why?" I ask, almost shocked.

"I don't know... angst teenage bullshit, I guess," he shrugs, "but I've missed it..."

I know how important his family is for Demian. I know how much he missed them the first time we were on tour —god, I would've missed them too. He's lucky enough to have a large, caring, and loving family, which makes it all one hundred percent better —and also worse. The first time we were on tour we must've been about... I don't know, nineteen years old? So, we were practically kids. When he moved to New York I knew he was doing it because he felt like doing it, but I couldn't help but notice how much he missed hanging around his sister and cousins. And who could blame him? With such a family I'd miss them too... Things got better after Rome, I guess, especially because we moved in together and I became his family, sort of, but still, not his only family... not like he's to me; my only family. Well, he and the boys, the rest of the band, and a couple of people, literally a couple, I only see from time to time... and none of them, nor them nor the boys, are biological family... you know what I mean? Family isn't always blood —and blood isn't always family. "What you thinking of?" I ask him when I notice him sitting on the bed, and I begin to walk towards him.

"I... I'm happy to be here," he tells me, a dreamy look on his face, as I sit on the bed at his side, "I've always loved this place, the house, and the people in it... but now it's... it's not like it's not _my_ home anymore," he says, sort of struggling with the words, "but the first time I came here, after our first tour, it still felt like home. It even felt as such for longer than that, even... coming back from Rome," he adds, almost with shame. I'm not entirely hurt by the remark because I know him, although... I'm a little hurt. "And yet," he continues, "right _now_ , I have another home, in New York, with a..." he turns to look at me, inspecting me with his eyes.

"A very handsome boy?"

"A very all right boy," he says, without being able to keep the grin from his face, and I slightly punch him on the arm, laughing, "but... I mean... it feels alright to have a place for me... that feels good... a nice one, a nice place, with a nice boy..." I smile. "I'm just trying to say I thought—"

"Yeah, I know," I tell him, still smiling.

I know what he's trying to say —home is where your heart is.

And his heart is with me, now and always.

The birthday celebration ends up being pretty amazing. There are like fifty guests, all for lunch, although most of them stay even until dusk. Most of them know me —some of them from past days, past meetings, and others, from magazines or videos. I can't help but feel flattered by such associations since as a kid, I would've given anything to meet some cool musician, and especially at a family meeting.

I spend part of the celebration answering questions, chatting with people whose names I don't usually remember, and having Demian introducing me to some others. Some raise their eyebrows and put a strange face when he tells them we're "together" —I don't know if because of the nature of our relationship per se, but it seems more of an "oh, I didn't know you (Demian) liked _boys_ " reaction... or an "I thought you liked girls" one, more like it. He'd finish the talking with some of them and then turn to me and whisper in my ear fun facts or memories he has of them, things that make me crack up, and things that make my cheeks hurt.

"They never met any girlfriend of mine," he tells me after the second pair of uncles does the eyebrow thing that night, "so I don't know what's so surprising... I never _said_ I liked girls..."

"But you do," I say, as he laughs and drinks from his beer.

" 'Course I do. Do you?" he asks, after a few seconds. Now I raise my eyebrows.

"You know I do..." he smiles and nods. "Why are we talking about this?"

"Because people assume things all the time..."

"And you don't like that..." he smiles again, one of those ironic smiles of his.

"And look who's talking..." I laugh, as Demian caresses my hair and kisses me.

We eat, laugh, smile, and talk for the majority of the day. About four pm they begin a chess competition, and even if I make it to the finals, I lose against none other than Demian.

I'm a sore loser, I've always been. I actually try not to behave like such while being in the presence of others I don't know very well (and, most important, others that happen to be relatives to the boy I love), but since I'm playing against him I don't keep a single comment for myself... or well, maybe a few, but those are not relevant to the game.

"Oh, man! Really?" It's checkmate. I lose and he wins after his Queen is facing my King and I'm out of any possible move. I'm not such a lousy chess player, but Demian... boy, he's damn good. A damn good singer, damn good guitar player, damn good piano player, damn good kisser... and damn good chess player. "God, you'll make me cry!"

"Well, if it helps you see, if it clears your eyes..."

"Don't you dare quote one of my favorite bands on me," I tell him, as he bursts into laughter.

"I'm sorry, honey, but you can't beat the champion..." it's all he says next, leaning back on his chair, a cocky smile invading his face, "what you gotta do?"

"I hate you," I say, pointing at him, but all he does is wilder his smile and throws a kiss to me, to which I respond shaking my head, half amused and half indignant. "I truly hate you," I mouth, as I stand up and leave the table.

I'm only leaving to grab something to drink, but I love making a scene and being a drama queen, so that helps.

Demian's cousins find me and tell me an anecdote of him as a younger boy throwing the whole chessboard on the air when he couldn't win, and I make a note in my mind to remind him of that when we talk later.

Demian's got three cousins from this side of his family —his dad's—, three girls, all of them younger than him. One is Ada's age, the other one's nineteen, and the other one is twenty. He has other cousins as well, but not real cousins, just his parent's cousins' sons and daughters. Anyway, he told me once he basically grew up with those three cousins, plus Ada, since all of them live there in Cleveland too.

I can't help but envy him a little bit when he talks about those things since sometimes I wish I could've grown up with such a cool family like his. And, even if he tells me all the time I'm family, and even if his family has told me more than once that I am, in fact, always welcomed in that house, in those birthday parties, and those intimate circles families and only families have, I can't help but feel something's missing from my life. Once again, I have to remind myself what I already know —that family isn't always blood and that blood isn't always family. I know that, I've known that since I was a little kid, even younger than Ada is, much younger... and yet, there's something about that idea, that thought, those words, that don't click inside my head just yet. They don't end up sinking in, they don't end up being anything refreshing or hopeful; they don't lift my spirits like they used to. Instead, they leave me thinking, wondering, imagining... I imagine if I have a family, and where is it. I know my so-called 'dad' didn't have any brothers or sisters, or so he always told me, but what if he had cousins? What if he had uncles and aunts? And parents, what about those? I never heard of my paternal grandparents, so maybe he just didn't like talking about them... maybe they were shit like he was. In the case they were, could I blame him for being as shitty as he was, or should I put part of the blame on his dad's or mom's shoulders? I don't think having a shitty upbringing should justify one's shitty behavior, but it certainly helps to shape it sometimes. I mean, I had a shitty upbringing and I feel like shit most of the time, mostly with myself... but I don't go around treating people like shit —I know better than that.

And yet, sometimes, even if I say in interviews and for the entire world to hear me that I don't care anymore and that I don't mind anymore, I find myself wondering where my dad could be, where my mom could be, and if they ever hear my name, see my photo... just think of me on the slightest. I wonder where they are now and if they're happy —maybe with another family, some new kids... I hope that, in the case they exist, their parents are treating them right, or better than they treated me. I hope, for the sake of those imaginary kids, they don't cry at night, wishing for their very real mom to come back home, wondering where is she and why did she leave; wondering if they did anything to make her leave if it was them to blame for her departure... I wonder if those imaginary kids have a dad, a present one, a real one; one that doesn't yell at them, one that doesn't throw punches to the wall —or who smacks them in the mouth. I wonder if those kids ever cry, alone in their room in the darkest of the night, wishing for a better life, or if they're content with the one they've got; I wonder if they ever wished for things to be different, to be better... I guess it is what it is, anyway...

By the time Demian and I are already upstairs, about to get inside the bed and get some sleep, I feel bad again. I feel like shit many times a day, many times a week, but Demian can usually make it all better... at least for some time. Yet, this night, I don't want him to make anything better, I don't even want to talk to him about that —about _me_ feeling like the shittiest and most idiot boy in the entire planet, in the entire universe. It should be a night of relaxing and sleeping, a nice night in his family's house, so... I will suck up my feelings and deal with them some other time like many adult men do.

"So, how was everything?" he asks me, lying on the bed. I sigh.

"Pretty okay," I tell him.

It's a lie. I'm lying. Of course, I'm lying. I'm a liar, a natural-born liar. I've always been —only not with Demian, or with my art.

"You still hate me for winning chess?" he asks me, a somewhat complacent look on his face.

"No, I don't hate you for winning chess... not _now_ , at least," I add, with a smirk, as I lay next to him. "You okay, tho?" I ask him.

He looks just fine. He always does. And yet, he's not always _just_ fine.

Demian's probably the nicest guy I've ever met. Honestly, he's chill, he's usually quiet, and doesn't make a big deal out of things that shouldn't be made a big deal out of.

And yet, I can tell when something's wrong with him, same as he can tell when something's wrong with me. I can tell when he's blue, when he's the less joyful he's ever been or when he wants to sleep until problems are solved —whatever those problems are. I can see it all only by taking a look at his face, and there are only a few things his face won't tell me.

"I'm fine," he says, after taking a deep breath, "just tired..." I nod.

I know something's bothering him, although he's reluctant to speak about it, and who am I to pressure him into doing such things?

Instead, I just let him lay his head on my shoulder and I sing for him like I always do when these things happen; when he can't sleep, or talk about something, or when he just needs to stop thinking. There are other methods to make him relax, of course, but right now... singing is just all he needs... all _we_ need.

I don't know how long it takes him to fall asleep, but I sing for longer than that —I'd sing all night and all day to him if he asked me to.

I finally fall asleep, my lips pressed against his head and his arm stretched over my chest, near my hair, as if he was playing with my curls... and I have good dreams, nice dreams —no idea what they're about exactly, but I know they aren't nightmares and that's more than enough. I hope Demian's dreams are as beautiful as mine, and even a million times more beautiful; he deserves it.

He's the first one to wake up in the morning. I know because, when I open my eyes once again, he's not there next to me anymore. His scent is, though, but not _him_ , not in the physical sense.

It's nine-thirty... I have forgotten the last time I slept that much.

I dress up and head downstairs, only to find Demian already there, as well as his grandparents, two of his cousins, and his dad and mom making breakfast. They're making breakfast for basically everyone, so that includes me. I can't believe someone's making breakfast _for_ me, and even if I attempt to help, they force me to remain sitting. Polly, Demian's youngest cousin, shows me a video that's been going around the internet about that night in Jersey and that special moment that reached many in only a few days. God bless the internet, right? We, both Demian and me, watch it even if we lived it, as she handles the phone to me and Demian leans over, his head over my shoulder, to take a better look at the video.

"I'd have loved to be there," she says, a dreamy look on her face, "I'm sure it was as good as they say here..."

"Oh, trust me," says Demian, his chin now resting on my shoulder, "it was even better..." I smile, unconsciously.

Fans love us. I love them too. Sometimes, they love both Demian and me way _too_ much —so much that they ask us personal questions. They ask us about _ourselves_ , and there are somethings we can just answer freely... but there are other things we'd rather keep to ourselves... imagine telling fans something like that (without even knowing how to call said relationship exactly...). And it's not like fans are a problem (all the opposite, since we wouldn't be here without them), but there are some things one would rather keep to himself because they don't feel like sharing them with the entire universe... and I honestly don't think that's a bad thing. That's what I usually argue the most about when being interviewed since the fact I'm a sort of public persona doesn't mean my life should be public. Anyway, when things like this happen between me and Demian, while on a gig or anywhere else and it's captured on video... interviewers tend to ask about it. And tend to mess with it a bit too much. If it were for just our fans... I don't mean to say I'd say everything to fans, but I'd sure be less frightened about the public eye set on both Demian and me if it weren't for interviews, or actually, for _interviewers_ who dig _way_ into things... and ask _way_ too much.

In the end, I end up eating a home-made breakfast for the first time in... I doubt all my life, but it's close... damn close. And yeah, Demian has made breakfast for me more than once, as I've made for him, but this is different... this is a family breakfast, this is something _else_... something I always wanted to be a part of, something I always felt everyone else had _but_ me. Damn, my old man used to put gin or whiskey or whatever he had in his hands in his milk by breakfast time, my mom left too soon but I don't have a single memory of her making breakfast for me...

But in this place, alongside these people... I feel safe and secure. And I feel like a kid again, even if I never actually knew that feeling safe could go hand in hand with feeling like a kid... but I feel like it now.

I feel like the youngest of kids, the smallest of them, as well as the most naive of them. I feel like shit —because I never had all these things while growing up—, but also, I feel strangely uplifted —because these things are now happening to me.

Because I feel loved —even as impossible as that may seem.

I spend part of the morning talking to Demian's family, especially to Demian's Gran. I love that woman with all my heart, and I swear I love the fact that she seems to love me as well, as impossible as that may seem once again.

We have lunch there and have to leave afterward since we have to make it to Pittsburgh to return the car, get our stuff from the hotel, and travel to... I don't know where we play next, but I know we have to leave in the afternoon because is some sort of a long trip.

I know it's hard for Demian to say goodbye to his family when we leave. I know it must feel like shit for everyone who carries this sort of lifestyle to say goodbye to a loved one like this, knowing that for the following months you won't be able to see them. Yet, Demian's brave, and he'll get by —he always does.

We make it to Pittsburgh in time. We return the car, go back to the hotel, and leave for Nashville. It's a long journey, a little longer than twelve hours, if not more, so around six pm, we're heading there already. We'll probably be there by eight in the morning, says Mike, our driver, and I hope he's right.

The boys tell me they've been alright these past days. Martin's afraid his stalker will get to Nashville, which is something we all laughed about at first but now take it as a very serious situation that needs to be solved as soon as possible.

Apart from that, we enjoy our time there. We have a nice dinner (they bought sushi for everyone before getting on the road), so we head South eating sushi and drinking beer.

Yet, I'm feeling like shit once again, and even if I don't feel the anxiety or panic attack instantly kick in, I feel it coming —not because I can sense it, because I begin to fear it. My biggest fear is to have one in the middle of a show and not be able to perform anymore and, since making music is the one thing I consider myself good at, I could say that's why I'm so afraid of it. It's panic disorder, what I have, or at least I believe it's called like that —you become afraid of having another attack, of experiencing that shitty moment again, and it's all you have in your mind... or something like that. No one should trust me to use medical terms, like ever, but I'm pretty sure that's how it's called.

We don't spend too much time drinking that night —or at least, not as much as we usually do.

Martin plays video games against Freddy while drinking, Demian climbs to bed early to do some reading and even if Nick was going to lie in bed and talk to his girl for a bit, he ends up seated with me on the couch, while the boys play games.

In the end, I go to sleep feeling completely renewed. I feel like part of the pressure resting untiringly on my shoulders evaporates all of sudden, without being able to properly understand how or why... but it just _does_. Maybe it's the talking, or the reassurance my friends are not only gods among men, but deeply caring human beings —and them, I love too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [let's chat on tumblr!](https://ilivejustinmyownworld.tumblr.com/)


	6. Not like the others

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5: Not like the others (also known as: "I Hate Dumb Questions, Dumb Interviewers, And People Messing With My Personal/Past/Love Life" A Novel By Matt Litter)

After one more week touring, we’ve played in three different new cities —Nashville, Atlanta, and Orlando. We play on the last one on a Saturday night, and spend the rest of the night at a bar, with some of Freddy’s friends. We sing there, alongside them, and play instruments and do some sort of intimate show. People seem to like it —even if we’re wasted.

The next thing I know, I’m waking up again. It’s Sunday, we are in a Hotel room in Miami and we have an interview to give at eleven. Interviews frighten me. They truly do. They’ve always frightened me, but now, they do more than ever. And still, they frighten me now more than ever, more than they ever did before, because I feel as if interviewers, journalists, and music business people have more things to talk about now.

Interviewers tend to ask the most infuriating questions when they speak of personal life. They tend to ask about life and childhood and how was it all back home while growing up and, even if I hate them for that, I don’t care. The past is the past, isn’t it? My family wasn’t nice enough so I could care about them, meaning I don’t exactly care about it when they ask about it —although that doesn’t mean I don’t get nervous.

I was supposed to get up at nine, but at a quarter past eight, I was wide awake already, sat on the balcony of my room, and eating gummy bears. There’s nothing I love more than gummy bears, I think everyone who knows me knows that and, if they don’t, they certainly should. Boy, even my fans give me bags of gummy bears when they meet me outside venues, so now, even if the tour has just started, I’ve collected a total of eight bags. And of course, who wants to have a bowl of cereal for breakfast when you can have this?

Demian wakes up with the alarm sound, naturally. He finds me on the balcony, still eating from my gummy bears' bag, and after taking a shower, he insists on going downstairs for breakfast. And I say yes, of course, because even if I’ve been eating candy for like half an hour, I could eat something else. And drink coffee, of course, it wouldn’t be me if I weren’t drinking coffee.

Do you know what’s the greatest thing about coffee? It can go with everything. Yes, of course, you drink it for breakfast, but you can also drink it with fries, with pasta, chicken, a salad, anything, you name it. If there’s one thing that we’ve got always at home is coffee. And cereal, because Demian’s a big fan. We usually get into these little and stupid domestic arguments regarding cereal, by the way, because he insists it should be put in a bowl _before_ milk, and I do it the opposite way. I don’t think it matters, anyway, but we wouldn’t be us if we didn’t bicker over stuff like that.

Anyway, we have breakfast and then we head to the studio, twenty minutes before eleven. They introduce us to the staff; they offer us some glasses of water and begin the interview at eleven.

I love it when they interview the five of us together because we have time to mess with each other, all of us. I mean sometimes that even makes me forget that I am being interviewed, that I’m doing one of those things I truly hate… but just sometimes.

The boys don’t hate it as much as I do, by the way. I mean, Nick is the most reluctant when it comes to these things, but that’s just because he doesn’t give a damn. Yeah, he hates having someone with a mic talking to him, and to have to answer, but he usually takes the opportunity to have fun and mess with them. He once made up a story about how he was born in Mongolia and how he can speak at least seven languages, and as ridiculous as it sounds, people bought it. They believed it all, I’m serious. Martin doesn’t really care, although he gets easily bored when they don’t ask stuff he wants to talk about, but still usually takes the spot to do some good, like, I don’t know, remind fans that it’s not okay to be stalkers, or to try to convince people to become vegetarians, stuff like that. And Freddy likes to talk about random stuff, although if it were for him he’d miss all the interviews and do something else entirely. Demian, on the other hand, seems to have been born for this, because there’s no one else in the entire world who could speak so comfortably in interviews as he does. I don’t know how, or why, but it’s just part of his magic.

At first, the woman who’s about to interview us asks us a few questions (if we’re comfortable, if we’re ready, stuff like that), and we nod and agree to everything, so the whole thing begins.

The first questions are about the album. She asks about the writing, the singles, and then the tour. We answer those in the most natural way since these are usually the easiest things to talk about. But then, after those minutes of peace, come the hard questions, the ones that start to slowly dig into your personal life.

Believe it or not, I used to love that. I used to love to sit on somebody else’s chair, or couch, and talk about my life. I loved to talk about what I liked, and what I hated, my favorite food, movies, and books. I used to love answering the stupidest of questions —until they began to be asked over, and over again. Then I started to hate them. And then the whole thing became worse since interviewers started (slowly but surely) to dig more and more into my personal issues... And that’s something I most definitely hate.

“So, Martin, they say you’re the most romantic one in the group,” I hear the interviewer ask him at one point, making the four immediately look at him, “is that true?” Martin rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Uh, you could say... I usually am... I haven’t been having the best of luck lately...” he confesses. We laugh a bit, and the interviewer seems to realize he doesn’t seem very eager to speak about that.

“And what about you guys?” she adds, looking at the rest of us, “what’s the best date you’ve ever had?” Nick looks at me and I’m certain both Freddy and Martin do the same thing... then, they look at Demian.

“I don’t know, man...” he answers, shrugging, “I don’t think I can say it live... but,” he hurries to answer before any more questions can be asked, “my _worst_ and very first date was in elementary school; I asked this girl out to have lunch with me at school by writing her a note and she said yes and I prepared everything and so... it turned out she was mistaking me for someone else... she ate lunch with me for about a minute and then left, but I still count it as a date,” he shrugs again. The boys laugh and say something funny, as usual. I say something, too.

“I’ll never do that to you,” but it’s in such a low voice that I doubt the interviewer hears me. Demian does, though, and he smiles and, with the biggest heart eyes, says something like,

“Oh, I know,” and that, she hears, and even if she cannot understand what’s going on (except for the fact something must’ve happened, and that the boys are laughing and I’m trying to look at my feet as randomly as I can), she can’t do much more than to put a curious face.

“I took a girl to the movies at twelve years old and thought myself to be amazing... I ended up kissing her, tho, so it all worked out to be pretty well...” Nick answers, quickly after Demian.

“I made a girl a romantic dinner at the rooftop of our building when we were seventeen,” Martin says, a smile on his face, “first girlfriend I ever had... the first kiss as well...”

“I can’t say much about it live,” Freddy says, “but I assure you mine was romantic as hell... it involved a bed of roses, a breakfast after and candles... can’t say more,” he says, as he makes a gesture as if he was zipping his mouth.

“What about you, Matty?” Nick asks, looking at me. I smile because I want to kill him for teasing me.

“Yeah, what about you, Matt?” Demian asks, teasing me as well. The interviewer is expecting me to speak as well. I think about the answer for a while, not being able to know which one I should give. It happens while being interviewed, sometimes —I just don’t know what to say. I get so nervous I don’t know what I should say, so I just end up saying the first thing that comes to it. I don’t know if this answer I’m about to give was my ‘best date’, because I don’t even know if you could call it a date... but it’s the answer I’ve got.

“Uh... my best date was at an Italian restaurant some years ago,” I say, thinking of Rome but not letting anyone else other than Demian and probably the boys realize that. Demian cracks up instantly, having to hide his face in his hands. Martin cracks up as well, and the interviewer just stares at them, puzzled. In the end, Nick says something funny that leads to a completely different question, and the conversation takes another road… although this one is probably worse.

“Tell me something, Matt,” the interviewer asks me, as she turns to me and snaps me out of my thoughts, “I’ve heard you’re from New Jersey, and that you played there for the first time in all your career some days ago, is that right?” I nod while trying to maintain the calmest look I can keep. This is the kind of question I hate; these are the things I don’t want to hear.., and yet… here we are.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I say, nodding.

“So, tell me, why did you wait so much to go back there?” she asks, and that’s one of the questions that I didn’t want to hear. Like, that’s one of the themes I hate, one of the things I hate… why on earth do they have to bring it up over and over again?

“Uh, well—” I begin, but I can’t answer much for the first few moments. I just stare there, thinking about what kind of an answer I could provide her with. Should I confess the truth? Nah, that’s the one thing I don’t want to do. But, maybe, should I say something like… a half-truth? I don’t think so either. But then— then what? “I really— I—”

“Was it something like a tour predisposition, or did you have your reasons behind the choice?” I shrug, or at least I think I do. When I say I don’t care for interviewers or journalists getting way into my personal life this is, once again, an example.

“Well, we certainly had never toured there,” Demian adds, and then Martin says something else. I know they’re standing up for me, but I can’t help but feel like this is my fight, my battle…

“Bad memories in Jersey?” the woman asks, and that’s the final straw.

“Yeah, just a lot of them,” I answer, and I can’t see my face, but I’m certain I look more serious than ever. I don’t know what the boys are doing, what Demian is doing, right here, right now, but I know one thing for sure; the interviewer is waiting for me to answer something, _anything_. And they’re all the same, journalists, interviewers… they won’t stop, not until they get what they want.

“Anything in particular?” she asks.

“Listen—” I hear Demian interrupt, but I’m faster.

“Just a big part of my childhood, as well as particular moments. Do you want me to make you a list? Or maybe draw you a picture?”

I don’t know what follows that. I only know that Freddy says something like I’m quite nervous and that it hasn’t been a few good days, and I don’t know if the interviewer believes him or not, but she seems to get it. So, then she asks something else, probably the thing she intended to ask in the first place —New Jersey’s gig, and the fact we had an entire venue singing a song dedicated to me, Matt Litter from New Jersey. She asks if it truly had been a surprise for me, and she shows us a few clips on the internet about the entire thing…

“Oh, we do that all the time… we usually play a song by an artist from the city or the State we’re in, you know?” Martin says.

“I heard you also did a cover of _Jolene_ back in Nashville, is that right?” Demian nods, and I have to hide my smile. He explains that it’s an amazing song and that we wanted to cover it for a long time, but I know better. I know the reason behind that, but that was our secret… luckily, it still is.

She also adds that fans all over the internet seem to love both Demian and me, and there’s nothing I can say.

“Fans apparently love the two of you together,” the interviewer says, showing her with teeth through a smile. Demian nods, as he smiles.

“Well, they have good taste,” he jokes (or maybe he doesn’t?).

“So, there’s nothing extra we should know about?” the woman asks, insistent, still smiling, but this time, staring at me with caution. I try to smile, even if I don’t feel like it, and shake my head.

“Not really,” I admit because it’s true.

There’s nothing extra _they_ should know.

“I think I speak for all of us when I say that… personal life is private, you know?” Nick intervenes, and luckily, he saves the day once again.

The interview concludes not much later than that. We say goodbye to the interviewer, thank her for her time, and walk towards the exit door as fast as we can, followed by Kyle.

“Matty, you okay?” Demian asks me, before anything else. I nod, even if I don’t feel like I am, in fact, okay.

“Yeah,” I say.

“I’m sorry to differ, buddy, but it doesn’t look like it…” I turn to him, as we stop walking. I have no time to even open my mouth since Kyle is following us.

“Hey, you two, time to talk,” he says, pointing at us. I roll my eyes.

I love Kyle, honestly. He’s a great friend and he was practically one of us during the first tour; he’s thirty years old and a kid on the inside, and I’d trust him my life (I sort of already do anyway). But, at the same time, I know he comes from the label. He’s our manager, yes, and we have beers and laughs with him but… he’s still the one in charge when it comes to some things… like these things.

He puts us inside a car to go back to the hotel and sort of scolds us all the way there. Well, not really, but… it’s sort of obvious how the whole thing became obvious to him as well.

“Listen to me, guys,” he is saying, as they drive us back to the hotel, “I understand you are young, you’re reckless and you don’t give a damn about interviews… but _I_ do. And I know,” he adds, before I can open my mouth, “that you especially, Matt, have a strict policy when it comes to your personal life… but you cannot hide forever, boy. You may love to live in a fantasy world in which you can hide for as long as you like, but in the real world, you do things like those and the internet knows about them —globalization, technology, you name it. And that means, everyone knows about it once it’s online —and if they don’t, they will. So, behind closed doors, you do whatever the fuck you want,” he adds, looking at us both, “but once you go to interviews you either deal with it or you can’t be in this business… And I’m pretty sure you both want to be in this business, don’t you, guys?”

I want to scream at him. I want to tell him I didn’t sign up to be part of this fucking business; I signed up to be a musician. I signed up to play some music with some friends and make a living out of it, but I didn’t sign up to the fame, the constant inquires over my personal life and internet videos that develop hundreds of theories that then will be brought up in the middle of an interview just for the sake of gaining some views or popularity… this isn’t who I want to become.

“Come on, fans do this all the time,” Demian snaps, smiling, as if by the mere act of doing that with his face, mouth, and lips he could make everything go away, “it’s okay…”

“But interviewers go way too far and you don’t like it, don’t you?” Kyle asks, looking at me with very sarcastic puppy eyes he’s making only to imitate mine.

“As a matter of fact, no, I don’t,” I tell him. He seems to think about it for a while.

“All right. But like it or not, you need to understand you are in the public spot, all the time. It doesn’t matter how your private life works, there are some things that they’ll bring up anyway… like everything regarding Demian and you. And fans will say millions of things, interviewers will ask a million uncomfortable questions, but you’ll—”

“They bring up these things all the time, I know that, but I hate them anyway, especially when they mess with my past,” I tell him. Kyle rolls his eyes. “And regarding Demian and I, they had never brought it up before in the middle of a damned interview,” I add before he can say something else, as Demian grabs my arm with a hand, meaning ‘don’t exceed yourself’. I know I don’t have to exceed myself, but I’m mad! Not at him of course; I'm mad at Kyle.

“You kidding me?” Kyle asks, unbelieving, “Last year, that English reporter? He asked you which member of the same sex you’d snog and you said Demian!”

“Hey, _I_ said Matt,” Demian complains, somewhat distressed.

“Whatever,” Kyle continues, “what I mean is you only like to talk about stuff when _you_ guys bring it up but not when someone else notices?” I can’t believe I’m hearing him say these things. I have the urgent need of opening one of the car’s doors and getting out of it, even if we’re in the middle of the road, even if the car is moving… I don’t care.

“That means nothing,” I snap back at Kyle, without looking at him.

“Well, it does! It means _everything_ , both to you guys and the band! You can’t just accept these questions whenever you feel like it, it’s all or nothing, my friends…”

“Are _you_ kidding me?” I say, and now is Kyle the one looking at me as if he wants to say ‘easy, don’t exceed’. But I don’t care. “My personal life, whether it is my love life or my fucking family life, my New Jersey years, or whatever the hell it is, is _mine_ only… why is it so hard to understand?” I ask, unbelievable. “I try to live my life outside the public eye, but interviewers like this one, or the one from New York make it all fucking difficult, man… And besides, you’re the one who advised us fans wanted us to look ‘accessible’, ‘nice’, and ‘ideal’!” I complain, already more pissed than two seconds ago. “You said ‘no scandals, no public fights, no public girlfriends’, no this, no that… guess what? You wanted it, you got it!” okay, maybe I exceeded myself a little with that, or maybe a little more than just ‘a little’. Kyle is the one rolling his eyes now. “I can’t deal with them,” I admit, shrugging.

“Then quit,” Kyle tells me, and even if I know he doesn’t mean it, his words hurt me like a knife, “it’s that simple…”

“Fuck you, man,” it’s all I can say to him, before leaning back on my seat. Kyle takes a deep breath.

“Matty—” I hear Demian say, but Kyle interrupts him.

“I’m serious if you can’t handle it—”

“I can!”

“Well, it doesn’t look like it, Matt,” he adds, and he looks quite serious now. “Every other artist, they’ll be delighted to be interviewed and considered interesting as much as you guys are, and you especially, my friends, as frontmen—”

“Well, I don’t want to be like the others!” Kyle stares at me, almost shocked.

“Okay, what are you then? A rebel rockstar? A spoiled one? A little kid who pretends to be a rockstar?” I roll my eyes. Demian stares at me, attentive.

“I’m no fucking rockstar,” I clarify, “I’m just a musician. But you put us in these situations that just—”

“That what? Sell more albums? Gain you a bigger audience? I’m sorry for doing my job, mister Musician!” he jokes, and he has a tone of voice that I hate; he’s messing with me, and worse, he knows he’ll win the argument. Still, I keep on fighting, because I may put myself down most of the time, but this won’t be the exception.

“I think that what Matt is trying to say, that I agree with,” Demian chimes in, with a much calmer tone of voice than the one both Kyle and I were using up to that moment, “is that sometimes they go too far. And they don’t seem to know where to stop—”

“Demian—” Kyle begins, but my boy’s faster.

“I mean, New York? That woman asked Matt, that last day, she fucking asked him… you know, hard stuff. And I don’t know if those are people that just don’t catch a hint or just don’t care, but… how do you expect us to deal with them? Lying? Nodding politely and moving on? Man, sometimes you can but others…” he shakes his head.

I know he’s standing up for me. I know he doesn’t care about interviews, he doesn’t care about stupid questions, harsh questions, uncomfortable questions… he can answer anything, to anyone.

And yet, _I_ can’t, because my mind usually gets the better of me in those situations. I panic, I feel like crying, and I become an anxious mess in so little time it seems unreal.

But, since he’s nice, caring, and amazing, he stands up for me.

“Right,” Kyle says, and for a moment, I’m almost certain he’d rather deal with Demian all day than with me, “look… I know it’s awful sometimes, but… sometimes, it’s the way it is.” I don’t want it to be the way it is —am I too naïve, perhaps? Whatever, I really don’t want it to be like that. And yet… “You just can’t shut up every single person who asks you something you don’t want to listen…” Kyle goes on, “and what I’m trying to do here is not blaming you or to scold you… this isn’t like it, this isn’t the kind of man I am or I’m trying to be. But you need to understand,” he says, before I can say anything, “that you are living your lives in the public eye and these things will happen as long as there is _public_ involved. And guess what? You’re one of the best-selling artists in the country; there _is_ public involved. And I hope, for the sake of all of our jobs, it keeps being like that for a long, long time, but if you can’t handle it…” he rises his hands; he doesn’t say it, but I know he’s thinking about it. “Whatever it is that we talk about —your personal life, your love life, your past life before the band—, any of those… just bear in mind that they’ll want to know stuff, and if you don’t tell them what they think they know, or if you don’t confirm them what they already know… they’ll torture you with it. And if not,” he adds, as he shrugs, “they’ll write, print, and record whatever they want to. They’ll sell _their_ truth, not yours… never forget that,” and, more like a warning, it sounds like a valuable piece of advice.

We make it to the hotel and have lunch there with the rest of the boys. I don’t even know what happens —I must look like a zombie.

We have no gig that night, but the boys choose to go out and drink anyway, at least for a few hours. I, on the other hand, choose to stay in my room, behind closed doors and doing something else, something different entirely… just relaxing, on my own. I hate that because it gives me way too much time to think about myself and my things, but at the same time… I just want to be alone. It’s a scary feeling, this wanting or needing of being alone because wanting that doesn’t mean wanting to be lonely —all the opposite— and yet, that’s how I feel most of the time; _lonely_.

When the boys go out and I don’t, or when the boys do something I’m not involved in, I can’t help but to feel the greatest kick in my stomach, as a reminder of how my natural state is; both alone and lonely. I’ve been like that since I was a kid (not that I didn’t have any friends at all, but I’d spend much of my time on my own, either in my room or outside the house, walking in the empty streets at night). Now, with this band and with these people, I feel like I’ve found a family of my own, people I love and people who seem to love me as well… but as soon as I’m left alone with my thoughts again, the loneliness kicks in and all I can think about is them going out to drink, party or whatever they are doing right now (without me) and just… having a good time. And that means they don’t need me to have a good time —not that I didn’t know that before, I’m not possessive, I know they all can have their own lives apart from me, lives separated from mine—, but in the same time… I feel the fear I’ll eventually get forgotten by them —or useless.

And honestly, I don’t know which outcome is worse.

I shuffle through different channels from ten or eleven on while eating a bar of chocolate I found on the room’s fridge. It’s good, it has peanuts in it… damn good. As I’m watching TV I find, in one of the music channels, one of our videos. It was filmed last year I think because I can’t even remember that; we were playing live and the video ended up being a collection of snaps of that day… it’s a live video of one of our songs. I’ve never seen it before, I think, or at least not entirely… or maybe I just don’t remember it.

I feel homesick. Homesick from a home I don’t know, from a life I never knew. I feel homesick for things I’ve never seen, felt, or experienced —and yet, I still want to. I miss people I never knew, houses I’ve never lived in, and roads I’ve never taken. I miss songs I’ve never played, heard, or written, and above it all, I miss those days in which I was expecting it all to get better, to be better —at least I hoped back then, at least I wished for _something_.

Now all hope has left my body, my mind, and my soul, leaving me fragile and naked. I have no use for hope, not anymore; I’ve made most of my dreams come true, and yet, why do I feel like I’m lacking everything? Why do I feel empty, even with music in my life, even with it by my side? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [let's chat on tumblr!](https://ilivejustinmyownworld.tumblr.com/)


	7. Return to sender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6: Return to Sender (or: How An E-Mail Changed Matt's Life)

“…I’m fine, I swear…” I’m telling Demian, as we walk towards the elevator and he follows me closely, “Just stop asking, please…”

“Matt, I know you, honey, and I know when something’s—”

“Look, I’m okay,” I tell him, turning to look at him and stopping my walking, “you hear me? I’m fine, everything’s fine, I promise…” I turn to the elevator again and push the button to get to the first floor and have breakfast. I’m not staring at Demian, although I’m sure he’s staring at me.

“Matt…” he says, sounding more serious than before. Now I turn to look at him, but it’s only because he places a hand on the back of my neck. The elevator arrives and a woman gets outside, mumbling ‘morning’ to us, which we repeat with courtesy. Then, we get inside the elevator and I push the button that’ll make it go down. But we have eight floors to go…

Demian’s still looking at me, his arms now crossed over his chest and leaning over aside. “You mad because of the interview? Or because of what Kyle said?” he asks me when we’ve made two floors already. I sigh.

“Sort of… both,” I dare to confess because I can’t stand to be mad at him —and it’s not like I’m even mad _at_ him, I’m just plain mad… but mainly at myself. Or at ‘yesterday’ because I guess I’m mad at the whole day. Demian is the one that sighs now.

“You can’t keep living the rest of your life being mad at interviewers,” he says, as the elevator stops on the fourth floor and a couple of kids get inside, kids I choose to ignore.

“You sound like Kyle,” I tell Demian, after a few seconds. He chuckles.

“Yeah, I hope I don’t… but you get what I mean. And you sort of can’t be mad at him all the time either,” he adds, turning to me. I nod.

“I do, yeah… but they still can’t control our lives!” I snap, suddenly irritated. The kids, two boys and a girl, probably triplets, turn to look at me and I’m pretty sure Demian smiles at them, but I’m not looking.

“No one’s trying to control our lives, it’s not like that…” I stare at him. We’re almost there, on the floor we’re meant to have breakfast in.

“Well, it feels like it,” I say.

The elevator’s doors open. The kids storm out of it. I do the same, and Demian follows me.

We play an amazing show that night. And I know they’ll talk about it if it becomes an internet trend or however it’s called… I just know it. But I also don’t care. At all, I just don’t.

I may sound like an idiot right now, complaining about what interviewers say about my life and then deciding to do whatever I can the following night in order to grab attention… but that’s not what I’m doing. I’m just showing them something, giving them a lesson; I’m showing them they don’t mess with me, nor with my life, nor with the people I love. I’m showing them I am the one who decides what to do and what not to do on stage, or anywhere, really; I’m showing them they don’t control me; I do. I control it all, because it’s my life, as Bon Jovi says. It’s me the one in charge, not them. And yes, maybe we’ll make it to the internet and news the following day, or maybe this same night, and maybe I’ll care about it next time I’m being interview or that someone sends me a link to something online… but I don’t care _now_. Now I feel free as a feather, I can play, act, and do whatever I want, I can be whoever I want to be…

Our next gig is in Tampa. Everything’s turning out to be just fine that night —we played a nice gig, we had a lot of fun (more than any other time this tour, of that I’m sure), and we even had a meet and greet with fans before going out the stage, which is always a nice experience. The meet and greet winners were two young girls, ages about fifteen and seventeen, who were total sweethearts to us and to the ones we, I hope, were total sweethearts as well. The youngest one started to cry when she met me, and even if fans sometimes do that, she soon made it clear it wasn’t just because she was meeting me.

“I just wanted to… to say thank you,” she told me, between sobs, once she looked and seemed a bit calmer, “because you always seem to speak so freely about your life and… about your teenage years and you, and everyone in this band showed me that with songs things can get a bit better and seem less lonely… and I— I remember you talking about your life when you were my age and I— you inspire me to keep trying to have a better life someday, and to embrace all my demons,” she added, wiping tears away from her eyes.

I didn’t even know what to say. I just stared at her, puzzled. It didn’t take me long to change expressions, of course, since she was talking to me and even making me feel… _good_ about myself, which is something that doesn’t happen quite often. And it sounds horrible to think about this situation like that, like ‘hey, something I did turn out to be useful to someone, that’s good, but… that’s how I felt.

“Hey, you okay?” I asked her, a bit concerned. “I’m flattered, I truly am— Listen to me,” I add, seconds after, looking at her in the eyes, “whatever shitty moments you can be experimenting right now, or at this stage… teenage years suck for many of us for various reasons, but I promise things will eventually change with time. And even if they don’t just now… art’s always a good company…” I meant all those words, I truly do, but I still want to say other things that I don’t dare to; not the way I want to say them, at least.

I meant to tell her not to bottle up her feelings, not to get used to it because when she realizes she doesn’t want that or that doing that’s not good for her, it’ll be too late.

I wanted to tell her to seek help if she needs to; to try and talk to someone if she feels bad, or if she feels like she just can’t keep on handling her thoughts on her own.

I wanted to tell her shitty moments go away with time, but sometimes they get stuck in your head no matter how many good moments you make afterward, and that means someday she’ll have to deal with shitty things over and over again… and that’s part of life, I guess, but she shouldn’t let that define her.

I wanted to tell her she’s not alone, even if she feels like it… and that even if she does, music’s always a choice. Hell, I spent a great deal of my teenage years listening to music in order to feel good about something, I even wrote, and I still write, music feeling either alone or lonely, but that doesn’t mean you truly are —or at least I don’t want to believe it means that.

I wanted to tell her that someday things will change… but she’ll have to wait for them to do so. She’ll have to be patient.

But especially, I wanted to tell her to keep in mind all these things if she didn’t want to end up like me.

I know she practically entered the room saying she loves me and she’s my fan, I don’t even know her personally, I don’t know her at all, but I love her, I love all my fans, but… I don’t really love myself, so I wouldn’t recommend anyone to end up like me. And of course, I love Demian and I know he loves me (or at least, I usually know), but… sometimes I can’t help but to wonder how the hell does he put up with me. In any case, what I’m trying to say is that I hope that girl doesn’t end like me —feeling like shit and feeling miserable every single day of her life… I don’t even know her, but I care a great deal for her to wish something like that.

“Thank you for your… words and your art…” she told me, as I handle my bottle of water.

“Here, have this…” I told her, “drink and take deep breaths…” She obeyed, following my advice that I, by the way, always follow from Demian. “What’s your name?”

“Kyla,” she answered, sounding and looking calmer. She attempted to give the bottle back to me, but I shook my head.

“Keep it, it’s alright,” I told her, smiling, and I could feel happiness returning to her with only that gesture —sometimes that’s all it takes.

“Thanks,” the girl said, smiling again, and I couldn’t do less than smile back at her.

“I’m sorry for the bad moments, but we all deal with them and we all have our demons; the difference is not all of us choose to embrace them or speak of them with such freedom. I wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t for my art,” I confessed to her, “but… that’s not right. You need to speak with someone if you don’t feel good, you hear me? Don’t bottle it all, seek help; always seek help first. And then yeah, you turn to music and art… it’s always helpful as well.” I don’t even know if what I’m saying makes sense for the girl, but in the end, she nodded, said ‘thank you’ again, and hugged me. “Goodbye, Kyla,” I told her, with a smile. I watched her leave with Demian standing on my side and whispering something to my ear.

“You did great,” he said, and I could sense his smile, even if I couldn’t see it.

Kyla… I don’t know why, but I have the feeling I’ll never forget her.

I’m inside the tour bus now. I’m drinking soda and thinking on my own when Janice approaches me. She has one of those looks on her face that means only one thing; 'let’s talk' —why does everyone want to talk?

“What’s up?” I ask her.

“I’m good. Tired,” she adds, with a smile, “but good. How ‘bout you, dear?” I shrug.

“Pretty okay,” I tell her. “You going to scold me or give me advice or simply say you want to talk to me?” I ask her.

“I was thinking of that, but I don’t think it will be necessary... so I just wanted to ask you how you were.” I smile; I just can’t help it. I haven’t been speaking to Janice much these last few days, but I just love every second I have to talk to her, even if it’s just a few words... I just like her so much, I even love her.

“I’m good...” I confess, smiling again.

“You know you can talk to me, right? And I _really_ mean it...” I nod because I know it; I _really_ know it.

“Thanks. These last few days have been shit and so have I, so... I’m sorry if I’ve sounded or looked more of an idiot than how I already sound... or look,” she puts a hand on my shoulder, as she smiles.

“It wasn’t like it, don’t worry. But Matt? I mean it. When I say you can talk to me, and as a friend...” I smile, even harder than before, just before nodding. She smiles as well, grabs a bottle of water, and walks away. It takes me a while to do something else, but in the end, I decide to sit down with my computer and check my e-mail. Boy, I haven’t done that in days, or maybe a week, which means maybe I’ll have many unread e-mails accumulated… or maybe I won’t have any, both outcomes are equally possible.

The fact is I have e-mails. I have spam, I have stupid e-mails, those you don’t even bother to open… and then, there’s the e-mail that changes it all.

First of all, what catches my attention is the sender’s name —Lisa Evans. I haven’t heard that name in years, and I automatically shiver when my eyes scan it. I haven’t even read whatever it says in the e-mail’s body, but reading the subject is enough. It says, in caps letters, only six words: HI MATT IT’S ME, MOM.

 _Mom_ …

I haven’t thought about her in some time, or at least not with that title — _mom_. When I think of her, of the person who used to be my mom, I think of the woman who abandoned me when I was a kid, a literal seven-year-old child, never to come back again, never to call again, never to even try to reach me again… she left and never looked back. It took me a while to get over that abandonment and even if I still have those abandonment issues, I carry them with me, inside my soul, my mind, and my heart —even if I hate them.

And there she is, somewhere, having the damn nerve to even try to contact me.

I close the computer. Just like that, I grab the screen from my notebook and close it, pressing it against the keyboard, and I just stare at the void. I’m the only one there, in the kitchen, just looking at nothing, at no one… and at everything and everyone at the same time. I look at my childhood and my memories as fast as my head can paint them, I think of them, I breathe them and I try to embrace them. I try to think of my birthdays or Christmas, but I fail, miserably. I fail because the few good memories I have of those occasions are not due to my mom or my dad —they aren’t due to my _family_ , at all.

I feel my body shaking again, once again due to an anxiety attack. I’m beginning to hate those, to be completely honest… even if I always did. My hands are sweaty and I’m lucky to be sitting because I know otherwise, my legs would tremble and probably even fail me. I try to take deep breaths and think of happy things, happy places, and happy people, but it doesn’t work.

I don’t want to look at it… but I also want to. I don’t want to open that damn e-mail. I don’t even know when she sent it, probably not so long ago since it’s one of the first e-mails to appear. I hate it because she’ll never know if I read it or no —I can read it out of sheer curiosity, but not answer it, and she’ll never really know the truth. I kinda wish she had written a letter, so I could return it to her unopened as if nothing had ever happened, as if her letter had never reached me… _Return to sender, address unknown… no such person, no such soul,_ as Elvis would sing. I feel like a bad person, but I truly want to hurt her for what she did to me… does that make me bad? I just want… I just want her to feel bad for what she did to me, because I sure felt bad when she left, and it was like fifteen years ago.

I don’t know how much time passes until I decide to open the computer again. I do it purely because of the fact I’m well aware that, if I don’t, doubt won’t let me rest tonight, and it’s quite a long trip; I _need_ to rest. So, against almost all my will, I open my e-mail again… click on that one… and read what my so-called ‘mom’ has to say.

_Matt, how are you? it’s been a while since we last spoke, and i’m to blame because of that. i’ve seen you on tv and read about you in a magazine; it seems you’re doing okay. it took me some time to manage to reach you, so I hope im writing the right Matt Litter haha. anyway, i just wanted to let you know i’ve been living in Fort Worth, near Dallas, and that from what ive heard you’re playing there in Dallas in some days… so come to meet me if you feel like it. i feel like it but i don’t know about you. if you choose to come, send me an e-mail and ill give you the address… it’d be nice to catch up :)_

Okay… okay… I need to read it again.

 _Matt, how are you?_ (Fucking terrible but thanks, I guess, for asking) _it’s been a while_ (more like fifteen years but apparently I’m the only one counting) _since we last spoke, and i’m to blame because of that_ (oh, you sure are) _. i’ve seen you on tv and read about you in a magazine; it seems you’re doing okay_ (I’m not) _. it took me some time to manage to reach you_ (more like fifteen years but, _again_ , who’s counting?) _, so I hope im writing the right Matt Litter haha_ (yes, fucking funny, I’m dying of laughter…) _. anyway, i just wanted to let you know ive been living in Fort Worth_ (nice, I haven’t heard from her in fifteen years and that’s all she tells me) _, near Dallas, and that from what ive heard you’re playing there in Dallas in some days…_ (I am, but now I don’t feel like it to be honest…) _so come to meet me if you feel like it_ (I truly don’t) _. i personally feel like it_ (good for you) _but i don’t know about you_ (how could you?) _. if you choose to come_ (I won’t) _, send me an e-mail and ill give you the address… it’d be nice to catch up_ (it honestly wouldn’t) _:)_ (More like :()

Now that I’ve read it again, I feel like deleting it, blocking her, or basically deleting my whole e-mail account but, surprisingly, I don’t do any of those. I just stare at the screen, trying to understand the things I’m experimenting with right now. I feel confusion, misery, sorrow, and fear. I’m frightened because of things I’ve never experienced, as well as for things I’ve experienced a long time ago when I was just a little boy. What can I say? What should I say? What could I possibly answer? I think of a few options, although I doubt any of those will work out.

_Hi mom, it’s me, Matt. It’s been a long time indeed, haha. I’m good, what about you? I’m glad you saw me on TV! Did you listen to our songs? Did you like them? I hope so! I’m playing in Dallas next Saturday, so I’d love to meet you! Send me the details of your address and I’ll let you know at what time and what day I can make it. See you soon :)_

That’s one option. I even write it down, but of course, I delete it in a matter of seconds. I can’t say that, of course. It sounds either too good or too fake to be true. I try once again.

_Hi, I’m okay, what about you? It’s been a while, yeah… Cool to hear you’ve seen me on TV haha. I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ll make it to visit you, but I’ll tell you a few days before Saturday because maybe I can manage to escape the band’s obligations and visit you for a while. I’ll write again later._

Sounds about normal, but I don’t know… it doesn’t seem to work out for me entirely… So I delete it. I have much more to say, why should I fake it?

I try once again; this time, I think about it as if I was writing a song. This time, I become the most honest person to exist.

 _Mom, I’m not good, not at all. I’d say I’ve been feeling like shit these past few days, these past few months, but I’d be lying_ — _I’ve been feeling like shit these past years, fifteen years to be exact. Do you miss me? Because I miss you, or at least, I used to._ _Where the hell were you, mom? I really shouldn’t call you like that, to be honest; maybe you were my mom once, but you aren’t anymore and haven’t been for a long time. I don’t know what happened to you; one time I came back from school and you weren’t there. Your things were gone and dad (he doesn’t deserve that title either, by the way, but let’s just call him like that just for the sake of calling him something) was drinking heavily, as usual. No one told me a thing until a few days later when I asked dad about you, about where you were going to come back and he said ‘she ain’t never comin’ back, boy’. I couldn’t believe it, but then days, weeks, months, and years went by, and… you didn’t come back. I resented you for such a long time, but I grew past that now. I had nice people around me, maybe not a lot of them but they were enough for me to keep on living. I’m glad you saw me on TV, by the way_ — _was it a gig or an interview? Did you see me with my band? I fucking hope so. And you know why? Because that band is my fucking family now. You did take your fucking time to reach me, by the way_ — _fifteen fucking years. What you’ve been doing since then? Having more kids and leaving them? I hope not. I’m playing in Dallas in some days, you’re right, but I don’t feel like going to see you. I don’t feel like seeing your face again, even if that was all I wanted to do as a kid. You can keep your stupid e-mails, your address, and your fake apologies to yourself; I have no use for them. Please, don’t ever dare to contact me again, ever._

I won’t send her that either, but I can’t lie; it feels really good to write it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [let's chat on tumblr!](https://ilivejustinmyownworld.tumblr.com/)


	8. Be Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7: Be Yourself (aka The Importance Of Music)

The next week is shit. We play in Tampa, as you already know, New Orleans, and Huston in a matter of six days. 

I act strangely during the entire week. There’s honestly not a day in which I don’t think about the e-mail and whatever it is that I’ll do with it in the following few days. I don’t feel like doing much, I don’t feel like saying much, and I only feel like playing music. The boys don’t push me —they know better—, and still, there’s nothing I’d like more sometimes. Yeah, if I think about it, the idea of them asking me what’s wrong with me that I act so quiet, so distant, or basically so blue gets on my nerves really fast, but still… sometimes I wish they would ask, you know? Even if it’s just so I can say ‘it’s all fine’ and, of course, lie… it’d be nice. I know they don’t ask because they know it gets on my nerves, but, still… 

Demian knows better as well.

We haven’t been talking much, because I’ve been acting strange and I don’t want people to bother me, so we just… don’t talk very much. He gets offended easily, by the way, in the times when I’m like this, I mean… he just doesn’t like people being mad at him, no matter who they are. And I’m sorry for him, but there’s nothing I can do to fix it… not now, at least. 

I got interviewed before leaving New Orleans, on a radio station, all by myself. I usually don’t listen to that stuff, but some of my fans have been talking to me about it in the e-mails they send me, so I guess I just have to listen to it. I skip the first part, but I go exactly to the part they’re all talking about —which is me talking about music. 

It’s a great interview, to be honest. I mean, at least compared to others I’ve done. They listened to my albums, and ask questions that are clever and well-thought, so… 

_“Now, Matt, tell me, you’ve been in love with music for how long? I mean, since you were a kid? A teenager?”_

 _“I always liked listening to music, you know, but, uh_ — _it became everything to me once I was like eleven or twelve… so it’s been a while,”_ the remark makes them laugh, I can hear it. 

_“That’s good to hear… and what has music meant to you during all this time? Has that changed since you were a kid? Does it still carry the same emotional meaning that back then?”_ Oh, that’s a question, I remember it… I remember drumming my fingers against the mic. Those questions always make me nervous, even if I already know the answers. 

_“Uh, well_ — _I found every single thing I needed in music, every single word I needed to hear… I found company, advice, uh_ — _an entire world, you know? And now it’s pretty much the same, but, uh_ — _I guess that with my music I’m the one making other people just, uh, giving them advice and company…”_

_“That’s what music means to you, then? Company?”_

It does, to be honest. But it especially did mean that when I was a lonely kid, more then than any other time. I always doubt whether to tell these things to someone, it’s just… too personal. And yet, they can help others… my fans, or anyone listening to the radio… maybe that’s why I told them.

_“Yes. I mean_ — _look, I love music, I really do. And as a kid I discovered it wasn’t only something that I’d listen to to be entertained or to just, uh, have fun; I found an entire universe that connected with me in a deeply, personal way. I found voices who screamed for me when I couldn’t, voices who spoke for me, who went through the same things. Maybe I didn’t know how to express some of the things I was feeling, or most of them at least, and maybe I’d feel my struggles were only mine, but I’d hear songs like Green Day’s_ BasketCase _and I’d feel understood. Because after songs like that, I’d feel that my struggles weren’t so strange or insignificant, and the fact someone was writing, singing, performing a song about them made_ me _definitely feel less alone. And there are words in songs, in particular songs, that I learned to stick by, you know? I’d hear Audioslave’s_ Be Yourself _, I’d hear lines like ‘be yourself, is all that you can do’, and I’d wear those words like an armor. Every single time, and I still fucking do. Because it’s people like_ them _I believed, people like them_ understood _. It’s songs like those the ones that kept me going. You know, I’ve screamed songs like Pearl Jam’s_ I Am Mine _at stadiums full of people. Songs that have meant the world to me since the first time I’ve heard, songs that I’ve literally got tattooed in my skin. And songs I never thought anyone would, like_ — _songs I’ve felt drawn to, and never expected anyone to feel the same_ — _until I went to a stadium, sang, screamed, and cried, surrounded by millions. And there I understood they understand, too. All those million screamers, criers… they do, same as I do, same as the band does. That’s the powerful part; it’s people who speak about themselves,_ their _experiences… and yet, you understand, and that’s how you know_ they _understand you as well. I mean, I_ — _I love Fleetwood Mac’s_ Rumors _, but I could never feel close to that growing up, and I mean, uh, emotionally speaking, because my life wasn’t that interesting! I didn’t have failed romantic relationships, I didn’t cheat on anyone, no one had cheated on me, I just_ — _That was music that couldn’t speak for me. I could enjoy it, but it didn’t speak for me. But, of course, if I listened to Springsteen sing something like ‘I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face’, I’d feel seen. I’d feel heard, understood… and I wouldn’t feel alone, at least for those minutes those songs lasted… so it’s all about company, I guess. Always about company…”_

 _“That’s brilliant, Matt. Do you think you could have a relationship like that with your fans? Or_ _your music could?”_

 _“Well, I’ve been told by many that it’s like that, and… I guess nothing makes me happier than to write, speak, and play music that just… speaks to someone else. That keeps them company, that makes them feel better… and I don’t know if it makes them feel less lonely, or weird, or what, but_ — _I mean, I don’t think it fixes their problems, but… at least it helps, you know? It gives them somewhere to belong… and hear them sing those words back at us at gigs, it_ — _it’s just priceless.”_

By Friday, we’re in Dallas, Texas. We have the whole day to relax, luckily, although I don’t even know how on earth I’m supposed to do that, having an e-mail I haven’t answered yet from no other than my mother, the one who left me years ago never to return and who right now wants to see me again.

Should I stand by my own advice and turn to music? Should I listen to something inspiring, something that would just… make me brave, make me decided? Something that would convince me I should talk to my mom again? Not to see her, maybe, but just… answer the damn e-mail?

I think about the things I’ve been answering my fans lately when they talk about how important our music is to them, how brave it makes them feel, sometimes… should it work like that with me as a lyricist? I don’t really know. But I do know that maybe, just maybe, I should stick by my words… and just man up, basically. 

It’s around ten. I don’t know how long I’ve been in the lobby, the only place with working wi-fi here, staring at my notebook. Minutes? An hour, maybe? I don’t know… What I do know is that I open the e-mail again, and after a deep breath and a couple of minutes of shaky hands, I write an answer. 

_Hi, how’s everything? Yeah, you’ve got the right Matt Litter. I hope I have the right Lisa Evans as well. I can go visit you on Sunday if you want, since tomorrow we’ll play in Dallas and it’ll be a pretty busy day with interviews. Let me know what time suits you. See you._

That’s my answer. It’s simple, it’s not too much, neither too little… or maybe it’s both, I don’t know, but it’s the one I send at the end of the day —be yourself, right?

Next to that, I leave the notebook in my room again… only to find out Demian’s not there anymore. He was asleep when I left, but I don’t know where he is now… maybe having breakfast, or at the pool. There’s a pool here, and I haven’t been in one for a while, so I guess it’s a good time to swim a bit. I used to love swimming when I was a kid, and it’s been a while since I’ve last done it, so I change my normal clothes for a swimsuit and get downstairs. 

None of the boys, _my_ boys, is in the pool. Actually, there are few people there, and that’s nice enough for me. I grab a towel and swim for about half an hour, and then stay outside for about another hour, a book in my hands. I haven’t read a book in who knows how long, and it’s honestly refreshing to do some reading from once in a while. As a kid, I used to do reading all the time, but it’s been like three months or probably more since I’ve read a book. And, since I’ve got a book with me all the time (or at least I try), I grabbed the one I’ve been carrying in my suitcase for the whole tour before getting to the pool, so I can read it now. It’s Thoreau’s _Walden_ , by the way, and I’d lie if I said it didn’t make me want to live in the woods as well. 

I read about thirty pages before being interrupted. I don’t know how much time passes until a group of five or six kids arrive, yelling and running, to the poolside and start to leave their things pretty much all over the place. They must be brothers and sisters, some of them, and or cousins, or maybe parts of families whose parents are friends, so they go on vacation together… And yes, here they come the parents… two dads, two moms… probably friends, all four of them… they are talking, unaware of the kids until they find their stuff all over the place and they start complaining, or at least it looks like they do. Gosh, I hope they control the kids the next time… 

I leave my seat less than ten minutes later. I can’t handle them, kids, anymore, screaming and laughing way too loud… I’m way too old for this, or maybe way too young.

Once I’m upstairs again, I decide to, before doing anything else, look for Demian. Maybe he’s back in our room… 

“Dems?” I say, from outside the room, as I open the door.

“Hey,” I hear him say, as I enter, only to find him near the window, cellphone in hand. He looks fresh, somehow, even with normal clothes and somewhat messy hair, “went to have breakfast and didn’t find you there, how’s everything?” he asks, leaning in to kiss me. I let him do it, but I say nothing as I realize why I came here exactly; to talk. “What’s wrong?” he asks me, concerned. 

“Uh… we need to talk,” I tell him, running a hand through my head, anxious.

“You breaking up with me?” he jokes. I try to smile but fail miserably. “Seriously, what’s wrong?” 

“I need to show you something, Dems,” I say then. He nods, still concerned.

“All right… show me, then,” he says, and I nod, as I grab my notebook from the desk. “You’re scaring me, Matt… you sure you’re alright?” I nod once again while making him sit on the bed and bringing the computer to him. 

“Listen,” I tell him, before showing him the e-mail, “I’m going to tell you something and you need to listen to me and just— I know you’ll probably hate me for not telling you earlier and because I’ve been acting weird this past week but whatever, I’m sorry… listen, uh… I got an e-mail the past week, on Sunday… and it was from Lisa Evans, a.k.a. my mom, _that_ same mom that left me when I was like seven never to return, _that_ mom that doesn’t deserve the mom title but anyway… she wrote and said she saw me on TV and that she knew I was going to be here in Dallas to play with you guys and uh, whatever, she lives near here in Fort Worth… and asked me to visit her if I felt like it. So I sent her an e-mail just today saying yes, and I just wanted to tell you this has been stressing me out this past week and I’m sorry, I’ve tried to tell you about it because I thought you deserved to know and because I felt I wasn’t being very talkative or being extremely nice to be around with… but I’m just sorry…” I say, shrugging. 

Demian stares at me for a few seconds, but it’s not long until he talks again. “Why do you apologize?” he asks me, one of his hands placing itself in the back of my head and caressing it, slowly, “Huh? It’s alight… I’m not gonna question you about why you didn’t tell me or anything, just— I hope you could’ve told me before if that would’ve made you feel better… but it’s okay now… I’m glad you told me now,” he says, kissing my forehead. I smile.

“Were you mad before?” I ask him, even if I kinda know the truth.

“A bit,” he admits, and I raise my head so I can take a better look at him, “but it was just… I was offended, or sort of…”

“Because…?”

“Because I knew something was wrong with you, or that you were hiding something, and I… I just want you to trust me these things,” he admits.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize, almost with shame. 

“It’s not your fault, it’s just— there’s no one to blame, really,” he later says, shaking his head and caressing my hair. 

“Dems?” I ask him then, remembering something, “I…” I don’t say anything else.

“What is it?” he asks, still looking at me. I reach for the computer I had left on the bed and open it. I just have a thought, something in my head that tells me to search through my e-mails to see if I’ve gotten an answer— and I have. Fuck, who is that fast? I’m already regretting sending the e-mail, and you have no idea how much…

“God, I don’t want to look at it— you read it,” I say —or, actually, I _beg_. Demian nods and reads the e-mail as I look away.

“Okay… ‘Matt, I’m glad you answered at last. I’ll be available on Sunday if you want to, around three pm if it’s okay with you...’ then it says the address…” I roll my eyes with disbelief.

I’m disappointed, sort of —but why exactly? _That_ I don’t know… 

“What you gonna do?” Demian asks, curious, as he leaves the computer aside. I shrug and read the e-mail with my own two eyes. As matter of fact, it says every single one of the words Matt read… I sigh. 

“I don’t know,” it’s all I manage to say next… but I lie. I lie because I _do_ know what I’m going to do, and that’s visiting her. The only thing is… I don’t want to do it on my own. “Well, I do know,” I correct myself then, “I’m going to visit her…” I look up at him.

“That’s great!” he says, even more pleased than me. 

“Yeah, but… I was wondering if you wanted to come with me… you know, because I say I’ll visit her now but then I’ll surely panic and probably have several anxiety attacks on my way there, and I need someone to hold my hair as I throw up,” I joke, looking away once again, although it’s not a joke really and although I don’t usually throw up (not even when really wasted), my hair _is_ getting long, so, in case of having to throw up because of an anxiety attack… I’d need his help. And that’s just the first layer of the whole thing because, to be honest, I’d need his help to get inside a car (sober) and manage to get to destination without wanting to withdraw every five seconds (and without actually doing so). 

“’Course I’ll go with you,” he tells me, as a wide smile appears on his face, “why wouldn’t I?” I dedicate to him a little smile that he later kisses. “But” Demian adds, “you need to answer her and tell her you’re going,” I nod.

“ _We_ ’re going…” I repeat, feeling good for the first time in days. “Okay…” I grab the computer again, “let’s see… okay, that’s it,” I add, after writing only four words.

“‘See you on Sunday’?” Demian reads as I send the e-mail.

“Yeah, I won’t write any more than that… it’s not worth it, really…” I shut down the computer and look at Demian. “Thanks,” I tell him, as he smiles back at me. 

“No problem, buddy.”

I don’t know what I’d do without Demian in my life. I never seem to be thinking about that because, as soon as those types of thoughts appear inside my head or in the corners of my mind, I try to think of anything other than that. I don’t know what I’d do without him, I don’t how who I’d be without him or what my life would be like if he wasn’t in it… probably pretty boring, and blue, less worth living and less romantic and, most of all, much less interesting… I’d be lost without Demian, to be fair... completely lost. 

Saturday is a busy day. We need to wake up at seven to make it in time for an eight AM interview at another radio station. It goes quite well, even despite the interviewers digging way too much in things they shouldn’t, or in spite is eight AM, we haven’t even had breakfast and I feel like sleeping in for the rest of the day… even knowing I can’t. 

We are all invited to the radio that day, and we even play a couple of songs. We leave and buy coffees on our way to another place where we’ll be interviewed at ten-thirty and that is about ten blocks away. We are lucky to convince all of those in charge of us (such as Kyle and Janice) not to put us inside a car so we can walk freely towards the place. We are, there again, interviewed, all five of us. It’s fun and a lot of laughter and a lot more fun, too. We then have lunch and then, at three, Demian and I have an interview at a television show where we won’t even play live… we’re just there to chat. 

It all goes well, at the end of the day, and in the afternoon, we play in a stadium in front of many, many people. Another almost sold-out date… 

Sunday works out fine, even more than fine, but is Sunday I fear the most. There are no interviewers, or fans, nor stadiums I have to face on Sunday… just a single person. 

I wake up at six AM. I’m lucky; I’ve slept about six hours, so it could’ve been worse, I guess. 

Demian’s angelical eyes open around eight AM. I’m already sited behind the desk by then, navigating the internet with my computer. I hate the internet, to be honest —I hate technology. All of it, I hate it all, even if it makes life easier… I just hate it. Anyway, I’ve heard the internet is good if you want to watch movies online, so I’m just looking for some of them. Between all that, I decide to check my e-mail (fourth time in less than a week, I’m getting better at this) and I find out I have another e-mail from Lisa Evans that basically says, “ _see you :)”._

That’s when the real panic strikes. I don’t want to panic, but I can’t help it; it’s just my brain messing up with me. I’d rather be drunk, to be honest, but every time I think like that, I need to force myself to remember that my dad used to get drunk so he could stop dealing with his feelings, and I just… I don’t want to become _that_. So, I think of anything else other than that. I think Demian will be by my side, and everything will be better with him. Hell, everything already is better with him in the same room, in the same band, and sharing the same life, so taking him with me to see the woman who is supposed to be my mom will just make it all less horrible for me, less depressing and even less dramatic. Of course, I can’t help but to think I may have to answer some of my mom’s questions about him (because she surely will have them, anyone with common sense has them after looking at both Demian and I interact for a couple of seconds), but it doesn’t matter, not as long as I’m _with_ him there… actually, I think I’d rather answer her questions about Demian and the nature of our relationship than to talk about myself. I hate talking about myself and I’ll surely hate doing it when I meet her again because everything I’ll have to say to her is probably something like ‘Hi, I’m your son, the one you left years ago, I have a band and I’m sort of miserable, but at least I have someone to love and who loves me back, so I don’t really need you ha-ha, bye”.

In a matter of minutes, we find ourselves downstairs, eating breakfast. I’m usually the kind of man whose stomach will immediately shut in case of feeling way too anxious, but this is, somehow, not one of those days. This day, instead, I have enough breakfast not to be hungry for the rest of the day (or the morning at least), and then I go swimming… well, not immediately, because Freddy says something about not swimming immediately after breakfast, so I go sit by the pool as he and Demian swim and I read… for a while. Then I swim. I swim from about nine-thirty up to ten, and then I do some more reading, as Demian takes photos —of the boys in the pool, of me reading by a side of it...

I use to tell him I hate having my picture taken (which is not a lie entirely, since I usually hate photoshoots and I feel like I’m the least photogenic person ever), but at the same time I love him when he does that —taking my photo— because it makes me feel loved, somehow. 

At a determined time, I fall asleep. I don’t know how it happens, but I know I do it with the book in my hands and that sometime later I have Demian next to me, shaking my arm slowly. “Matt…” he is saying, as I open my eyes.

“What—”

“You’ll burn your pretty face, honey,” he says, from the chair next to mine, sunglasses on his face and wet hair still sticking to his forehead, “so you either wake up or put some sunscreen…” 

“Yeah, I’d rather wake up… what time is it?” 

“Like… almost twelve,” Demian says, checking the time on his phone. I nod. “Kyle will lend us the car he rented for these past few days,” he then tells me, “and he says we’ll leave the city tomorrow around nine, so he’ll return it tomorrow…” I nod again, beginning to stress out a little once again. 

“Don’t you wanna stay here all day?” I ask him, closing my eyes. I can hear screams coming from the pool, as well as laughter, and I know some of them come from people I know —Freddy, Martin, and maybe even Nick, although I’m not so sure he’s awake at this time… he’d sleep all day if he could.

“We have other things to do,” he admits. 

I want to cry again. Fuck.

“Can’t we just—”

“No, we can’tgo, and you already said you’ll go and told me to accompany you and I’ll do that…” Demian says, interrupting whatever it was I had to say. I roll my eyes.

“What about me getting _really_ sick?” I ask him, turning to him and opening my eyes. “Maybe I could do that and then we couldn’t go and… just stay here…” ‘forever’ I want to add, but I can’t bring myself to do so. Forever, like I want to stay in Rome. Forever, like I want happy days to last…

“There’s no way you’ll do that, Matty… sorry to break it to you,” Demian tells me, walking towards me and putting sunscreen on my face. 

“Where you got that from?” I ask him, frowning, as his fingers, filled with sunscreen, caress my face, slowly. 

“Martin,” he admits, “you know how he hates sun burning in the slightest…” I smile a little, as keeps caressing my face. “Very good, now this is good… now we won’t risk your pretty face getting all red…” he adds, with a smile, kissing my head and returning to his seat. I never really cared about it, but I’m indeed very pale and I get sunburned easily —only that I don’t really care about it, not like Martin. 

I don’t know for how long we stay there, in the sun, but I know we talk, smile, and laugh. I don’t care about what, but we just do it. Nick joins in later, fries in his hands, and when the rest of the boys leave the pool, they join as well. We stay there until they get way too hungry and decide to go grab some food and, naturally, I follow them, even if all I can eat at that moment are a few fries that I manage to steal from Demian’s plate —quite the opposite of what usually happens. Of course, I fear the moment that is about to arrive quite a lot, but I try to forget about it at these hours, even if it’s almost impossible… I think about how much I’m laughing, about what a good time I’m having, about how much I love my job and the people I get to work with… 

I won’t feel like this every day of my life or every minute of any day… 

And yet, I need to remind myself that _these_ are the moments that I have to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [let's chat on tumblr!](https://ilivejustinmyownworld.tumblr.com/)


	9. Disenchanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8: Disenchanted (or: Matt Litter Tries To Make Ammends With His Past)

Demian and I leave around two-thirty that afternoon. Yeah, my so-called mom said to be there around three, but I don’t want to be way too punctual, either way too late, and since Demian looked it up online and found out it’d take us around forty minutes to get to Fort Worth, we leave at that time.

I decide to drive the car that time, and even if Demian asks me a million times to drive, it ends up being me. I’m not a lousy driver, but neither I am ready for Formula 1… I just like to drive. Demian, on the other hand, is a much better driver than I am, but still, I take the wheel, promising him that on our way back, I’ll let him drive. I know technically he asks me to be the driver so I can relax before getting there, but I know that’s the same reason I need to drive —after all, if I know he’ll be the one sitting by my side, I’ll drive straight to the place we’re heading to, probably whining a bit but straight there… I won’t even think of jumping from the car… I’ll just drive…

Of course, I let him play music, as much music as he wants to. He also sings during the entire trip, which is good, since he has the most beautiful voice in the world (at least that’s how I feel about it), and he also is very fun to be around —he has a remark for everything, a fun fact about every song, band or artist. He knows so much about music I tend to envy him, but I’m so eager to learn from him every single time. He sings every single thing that they play on the radio —from The White Stripes to Dolly Parton, from Blur to Blink-182.

We arrive more or less in time and leave the car as soon as the song playing on the radio ends. Demian turns it off for me. “It’s time,” he says, “you ready?” I nod because I know that if I don’t, I’ll never leave this car. And yet, I don’t look ready, not at all. In fact, my heart and my mind are racing a lot, and I feel like I’m about to throw up. Yet, Demian’s there for me, as he always is, as he will always be. “Let’s get to it,” he says and then, he kisses me on the lips, only to proceed to step out of the car.

And I follow him because I can’t do anything else.

I walk towards the door feeling both a knot in my throat and repeated kicks in my stomach. Demian walks behind me and stands by my side as I ring the bell. “I already want to leave, can we leave?” I ask Demian, turning towards him and speaking in the lowest possible voice. He shushes me. “Dems, I mean it... let’s go,” I attempt to go back in my steps, but I feel his hand against my chest, stopping me.

“You stay here,” he says, making me turn around to face the door once again, “and wait.”

“Dems, I really can’t—”

“You’ll manage...”

“No, I mean it,” I insist, looking at him, “I want to throw up...”

“It’s the anxiety,” he reassures me, even if he knows I know that. “Take a deep breath and think about nice things...”

“I really can’t—”

“Hey, look at me,” he says, placing both his hands at the sides of my head and looking me in the eyes, “it’ll be fine. I’m here with you. I got you; now calm down, honey, okay?” He lets me go and I take a deep breath. Just then, I hear the sound of the door opening.

The woman that stands now in front of me is the same one that used to live in my house when I was a kid —blonde hair, blue eyes, and freckles all over the face. She looks exactly the same as she did when she wasn’t even thirty and I was a kid, a small child with no idea of what would happen on a Wednesday afternoon when, after school, I’d come back home and not find her there, not that day nor any of the following ones. I can’t believe fifteen years have passed and she still looks the same as she did when I was seven. “Hi,” she says, with a smile on her face. I blink, several times, as panic strikes once again.

I feel dizzy, as if nothing makes sense, my palms are sweaty and I don’t feel good... and yet, I won’t let anxiety beat me. So, I take a deep breath. “Wow, you look— you look big,” she says, keeping her smile.

“Hi,” it’s all I say.

“It’s been a while,” she says, making it sound almost like an apology. I nod because I don’t know what else to do.

“Yeah, it’s been a while...” I say, nodding. “Uh, this is... this is Demian,” I say, pointing at him, as he politely smiles and raises a hand to say ‘hi’, “he’s, uh, he’s my...” I don’t know what to say; friend? He’s more than that. Boyfriend? He’s not strictly that, and yet... more than that. Soulmate? Can’t say that, although... I could…

“Of course!” Lisa slash my so-called mom exclaims, almost instantly, “I saw you on TV as well, Demian. You’re the singer!” He smiles.

“I am, yes,” he says, nodding.

“Matt didn’t tell me he was bringing someone but you’re most welcome, of course you are,” I try to smile, but Demian’s better than me in this situation.

“Yeah, I just happen to be better with directions and roads and cars...” he jokes, although he truly isn’t joking.

“Is fine, it’s lovely to meet you as well. Come on in...” she insists, opening the door for us and making room for us to enter. I turn to look at Demian, but he only puts a hand on my shoulder and makes me take a few steps forward until I’m inside the house and he’s behind me. I know him quite well, and that’s how I know he’ll not say a word or do a thing until I’ve done the same —after all, it’s me the reason we’re here.

Lisa has a nice house, with pink walls and some old furniture. She guides us to the living room, where she insists we sit on the sofa, as she takes the armchair, and then proceeds to look at me, almost expectant. I don’t know what to say. I feel the need of throwing up due to the anxiety, and there’s very little I can think of to make it stop. I look around me at the different paintings hanging from the walls, trying to avoid looking at her for as much as I can. I don’t know how to act; if it were up to me, I’d get up that very same instant and leave the house without saying another word. And yet, I can’t do that, because I’m there with Demian and that means I have to behave and act almost as a fully functioning human being. “Nice place,” I finally dare to tell her, still looking around. She smiles.

“You like it? I painted the walls when we first moved here, about ten years ago...” I nod. Who the hell are _we_?

“Yeah, it’s nice...” I say.

“So… what about you? I know it’s been a while now, but I just wanted to know what you’ve been up to... with the band and stuff...” She looks now at the both of us, “I saw you on TV guys... you’re good!” She sounds more excited than she should be, and I can tell it’s because she’s trying to make conversation, but everything just... seems so fake.

“Uh, yeah, we’ve been together for some years now...” it’s all I can say. Demian smiles; I can’t see him, but I know he does.

“That’s good… really good…” she says. And then, everything’s silent again. I’m already wishing for the earth to swallow me… “Listen, boys, you want something to drink? I was—” before she can finish her sentence, whatever she was going to say, she is interrupted by loud footsteps that seem to be coming down the stairs (that happen to be where we are) and in a matter of seconds I see two boys, not older than ten and six or maybe seven, coming down the stairs, screaming nonsense. “Boys, what did I tell you about running inside the house?” she says, looking at them, upset.

“But mom, Dylan’s hungry and won’t stop complaining,” says the oldest one.

“Well, you had lunch not that long ago, Dylan…”

“I know!” the youngest one screams, making me slightly distressed, “but I’m hungry anyway.” I look at Lisa, who’s looking at them… and then at us… and then at them again. “Please, mom,” the little one insists, making her roll her eyes and nod. God, I’ve never seen her so patient before…

“I’m with visitors, don’t you remember?” She says, pointing at the both of us. “This is Matt, and this is Demian,” I try to smile, a little, insignificant smile, as Demian raises a hand and waves it, as he usually does when saying ‘hello’. “What do we say to visitors?” she asks then to her boys.

“Hi,” they say, a little bummed and a little shy as well.

“Hi,” we repeat, Demian with more feeling than me.

“Do you guys want anything to eat or drink? I’ve got lemonade or water, but I could make some tea or some coffee…” I look at Demian, who just looks at me, as if he was forcing me to speak.

“Lemonade would be nice,” I say, almost as if it were nothing.

“Yeah, same for me,” Demian says next, nodding. Lisa smiles and stands up to go get it.

“I’ll be right back, then,” she says, before entering the kitchen, followed by the two boys, “make yourselves at home…”

At home… funny she says that.

I used to have a house that I supposed should feel like home when I was a kid. I used to live somewhere in New Jersey with a woman who looked just like her, only that fifteen years younger. I also used to live with a man, her husband, my dad, although he never acted like neither of those two things. I used to want to escape that place every single day… but she did it before I had the chance to do it first, I guess. And I’ll never forget that.

Also, the kids… who the hell are they, her kids? Her sons? She couldn’t treat the first one well enough and now she’s got another two? I always figured that, if I ever encountered either of my parents again and found out they later remarried and or had more kids, I wouldn’t be mad —such childish behavior, to be mad at such things, especially at this age—, but right now I can’t help but to… be sort of mad. I know I should never be mad in these cases, at least not mad at the kids, since they certainly aren’t to blame, but still… I can’t help but envy them, or at least to feel some kind of envy towards them if their lives are what I’m starting to believe they are, even after two minutes…

“You okay?” I hear Demian ask me, as he places a hand on my leg, to snap me out of my thoughts and the darkest corners of my mind. I turn to him. I want to nod, but I don’t feel okay, and I also don’t feel like he’ll believe me if I nod.

“I’m… I don’t know, Dems,” I say, speaking in whispers, “I don’t feel comfortable in this place, but I can’t just get up and leave… or maybe I could—”

“No, you’re right, you can’t,” he says, shaking his head. I shrug; at least I tried.

“And who the hell are those kids anyway? _Her_ kids, _her_ sons… or what? Why does she…?” I say no more, but Demian understands. I know he does because he caresses my leg and looks at me with those angel eyes of his. “This is just too weird, I want to…” I look at him in the eyes, “I want to go home…” I say, as I feel my eyes fill with tears.

I look at Demian again, or maybe I was always looking at him, only that I wasn’t paying attention; I was lost in my thoughts and my mind. “What if—” I begin, but there’s no chance I finish the sentence, as Lisa slash my so-called mom reappears in the room, holding two glasses of lemonade in his hands and followed by the two boys that appeared before, who seem to be eating something like sandwiches.

“Here you go, boys,” she says, handing us the glasses.

“Thanks,” Demian says, smiling politely. Lisa sits in the armchair again, as the kids wander around the living room, laughing, eating, and talking to each other.

“So, Matt… how you’ve been?” she asks me, after a few moments. I look up at her. How dare she keep asking that damned question? “Look, I… I know this mustn’t be easy for you, but I just… I saw you on TV some time ago and I couldn’t believe you were my boy…” You know in cartoons when a character is way too angry so smoke or fire would come out of their heads and or ears? Well, if I were a cartoon, that’d be me right now. Also, I can feel it coming —the voice breaking. I know it’ll happen; I know it’s about to happen… but I don’t want it to happen. I don’t want it to be like this. It’s a selfish and even horrible thought, the one that crosses my head at this moment, but I just have it; why is she the one whose voice is breaking or about to? Why is she the one who looks like crying, or about to? Shouldn’t that be me? _Me_ , the boy that was left behind at seven years old only for an idiot and drunken dad to take care of him… shouldn’t I be the one crying? Shouldn’t I be the one who’s about to break down, or who feels like shit? Am I not the one who got his life ruined? I was just a kid, after all, and she was a grown woman. And yes, I know she could’ve had a million reasons and motives, and I’m not saying she can’t feel certain remorse for what she did or try to mend the relationship, better late than ever, I guess, but… I just can’t understand why she waited so many years. I can’t understand why she didn’t do it earlier, or why… just _why_. “You still live in Jersey?” she asks me, as I still hold to my lemonade glass. I shake my head.

“No, I live in New York… _we_ live in New York,” I add, gesturing both Demian and myself. Lisa nods.

“Oh, I see… beautiful city…”

“Yeah, it’s got its beauty…”

“What about… what about your father?” she asks then, choosing the words carefully. “Do you still—”

“I haven’t seen him in four years,” I admit, as I shrug. Demian, whose elbow is resting in the back of the sofa and his arm hanging from there over my shoulder, begins to caress my shoulder slowly. I always feel more confident, as well as safer, when he does that, and this is one of those times.

Lisa stares at me. “Was he…?” she begins to ask, but she doesn’t finish the sentence. I know what she means to say, anyway; I know it all.

Was he a jerk? Yes. And she knows it, and she knows I know it too —but she doesn’t want to be the one saying the words. After all, she is the one that abandoned me and left my childhood in the hands of such a man. “Yeah, a complete asshole,” it’s all I can say, despite my best efforts to sabotage the whole thing. “I don’t know where he is now, tho,” I admit, as I take a sip from my lemonade, “I don’t care either…” She nods.

“I don’t blame you,” she says, without looking at me, “I don’t…” Oh, I know she doesn’t —although it’s me who blames her. “You look just like he looked like when I first met him, anyway…” she says then, unexpectedly. I close my eyes, without actually meaning to do so, but I just cannot do anything else.

It’s not a compliment, by the way, and I hope I’m not mistaken when I think she didn’t mean it like that… but still, I can’t help but feel offended. I don’t want, in fact, to have anything to do with a man like my so-called dad, but I know two things about this; first, I am beginning to slowly look like him, and second, his surname is something I’ll always have to carry… as well as the scars he left me —those are imprinted in my mind and in my soul too. So, there are three things I know about this, actually.

“Listen, Matt—”

“Where the hell did you go?” I ask her, interrupting whatever it was she had to say. I can’t handle it anymore and if I don’t say it out loud, I’ll probably explode. “Where did you go when you left me, _mom_?” I go on, the ‘mom’ sounding more than ironic.

“I just needed to get away for some time…” she answers, after taking some time. I roll my eyes in disbelief.

“For ‘some time’?” I repeat, as I feel Demian’s gaze. “You go out of town for a few days for some ‘time’, not out of your kid’s life… what were you thinking of, huh?” I’m raising my voice way too much now; I know because Demian’s hand is pressed against my shoulder and because I see Lisa’s worried look. I also see the two boy’s eyes fixed in me, totally clueless. She tells them to go upstairs or outside for a while until she’s done the talk or something like that, but I don’t listen to her. I just feel Demian’s tight grasp against my t-shirt and, of course, I listen to my thoughts, and whatever it is they have to say. “You left to seek for a better life and, apparently, a better family as well, but you left _me_ behind! Your _boy_ , your _only_ boy! Where the hell were you, mom? You don’t deserve that goddamn title; you know that, don’t you?” I keep saying, my hands shaking and my lips beginning to follow their steps as well. I don’t know what happens then, I don’t… I just know sometime later, sometime that afternoon, I hear her talk.

“I’ve gotten better… see those two boys? They’re my sons, Dylan, the youngest, and Mike, the oldest... they’re your brothers, half-brothers…”

“Why should I care?” I say. “What the hell, where—?” I say no more. I feel like crying.

“I was having an unpleasant life back then in Jersey,” she tells me, almost making it sound like a complaint, “what could I’ve done?”

“Take me with you, maybe!” I complain once again, this time truly screaming. “I don’t need your lemonade, your silly apologies, or your fake interest _now_ ; I needed it all back when I was a kid! It’s been fifteen years, _mom_ , fifteen fucking years… what the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t a good mom back then,” she apologizes again, apparently unamused by my sudden screaming, “and I hope I am now… for those boys, but also for you… Everything seems to have turned out good for you anyway…” she adds, and I really want to scream again. “Now, Matt, if you want to, we can—”

“No, there’s no ‘we’, there’s no fucking we, _we_ stopped being a thing of any relevance fifteen years ago, _fifteen_ fucking years ago…” I say, shaking my head. “You mean nothing to me, just like dad. None of you were there when it mattered; none of you could be an actual parent. And I don’t mean it for silly things, I don’t care about birthdays or Christmas or breakfasts… I had no one to check my homework before school, no one who could help me with it, no one to talk to when I felt like I needed it, no one to care for me when I was sick, no one to take me out to the park, no one I could trust, no single parent in a house for three!” I scream, even louder than before. I feel my eyes filling with tears and a knot in my throat that begins to wilder as I keep on speaking; I don’t mind. I need this, I’ve needed this for a long, long time, and now I’ve finally had the chance to say it all out loud. “I don’t care about mending our relationship or whatever you wanted to call it, I’m done…” I say next, shaking my head.

Lisa stares at me, clearly sad.

I understand, I truly do —I left my dad as soon as I could as well. And yet, I don’t blame her for doing that, _but_ for not taking me with her. I blame her for leaving without further notice and never coming back, never calling again, never trying to reach me or contact me again. I truly wish this was an even more tragic story; when I was a kid, I used to wonder whether if my mom was truly gone, or if she was trying to come back but couldn’t. What if she was trying to contact me, to reach me somehow, but she couldn’t do it… maybe she was sending me letters, but my dad was keeping them from me? Maybe she was trying to call me but couldn’t remember the phone number? Maybe she was trying to come back but couldn’t figure out how? Of course, those things were too good to be true —she left without me, that’s why I don’t seem to understand, even now fifteen years later; she left because she knew the place was shit, but chose to leave _me_ there?

“I didn’t mean any of this to hurt you,” I hear Lisa say, after some moments, “I truly didn’t expect to… be a good mom to you, so I figured…” she says no more; instead, she takes a deep breath.

“What? That leaving me would solve it all? Leaving me home, with _dad_? You figured fucking wrong, then…” I add, as I try to gain control of my emotions. I don’t want to cry, not in front of her, not in front of anyone really, but it’s getting harder with each passing minute.

“Matt, I never— I never forgot you,” she says next. I want to scream again. I want to tell her I did, in fact, forget her, and that I don’t care about anything she has to say anymore, but I know it’s not true. And yet, I don’t know how to face my feelings, especially when they are too much, like now.

“I—” I say next, standing on my feet all of sudden, “I… I can’t do this. I need to go back to Dallas…” next thing I know is I’m heading to the door and opening it. Demian’s behind me, of that I’m sure, and I still have my lemonade in my hand, so I leave it over the first piece of furniture I can find.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to turn out like this,” she says, and even if I’m not looking at her, I can feel the tears in her eyes and her voice slowly breaking again, “I really didn’t…” I feel the need of stepping out of the door at that moment, but something stops me. Maybe it’s her voice, maybe is the fact I feel about to cry as well, or maybe is the fact I’m well aware I need to say some more things in order to, at least for now, have a clear conscience. Demian’s standing by my side, in silence, and I’m standing at the door when I turn to face her again.

“And yet, things turned out to be exactly like this. You left, that’s what happened, you never reached me again, you never came back, and now you try to mend it all… and yeah, you feel like shit, but I feel like it too, and I’ve been feeling like it for almost all my life, and you’re to blame for _some_ of that. You had your reasons to leave the house, but not to leave _me_ and…,” I add next, taking a deep breath and forbidding myself to stop from shouting, “that doesn’t mean I can forgive you, at least not now… Do you know how it feels for a kid to be left by the only person in the world that _maybe_ could’ve loved him? Like shit, that’s how it feels… like pure shit. But I turned out okay,” I add, shrugging, “I mean, I didn’t have a normal upbringing, neither I had an actual family but… I had people who took care of me… and I still do. And, most importantly— I have no use for you.”

And that’s it. That’s the last thing I say before stepping out of the door and walking towards the car. Demian follows me, in silence. I feel like I’ll begin to sob any minute now, and if my nightmare of a meeting wasn’t enough, before reaching my car and still being in the propriety I find those two boys standing in my way, a ball on their side and intriguing looks on their faces.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” I feel the urge to tell them, even if I’m not exactly sure why that happens, “I am… I hope she’s a nice mom to you, boys, and I hope nice things happen to you and…” I blink several times before being able to say something else, keeping the tears from falling. “If you ever need anything, ask her for my e-mail and write away… I promise I’ll try to help you…” And with that, I truly leave. I don’t look back; I don’t wait for anything or anyone. I get inside the car and I decide to drive away. I don’t even care I told Demian he’d be the one driving on the way back, I just turn on the car and get away from that house… But it doesn’t last long, me taking the wheel. I last about, I don’t know, ten minutes behind it, but as soon as we’re taking the 820 to Dallas, I start feeling bad… way too bad. I wouldn’t necessarily mind, except for the fact I’m driving alongside other drivers and that I could basically crash or even kill anyone if I make a bad move or stop focusing on the road for just a second… and of course, Demian’s by my side. I don’t want anything to happen to him. Also, the car is rented, so crashing it or killing anyone could be a problem.

Demian’s been telling me to let him drive every five seconds, and even if I’m thinking of something else entirely, I can’t help but listen to him… so I just press the hazard lights button and stop the car at a side of the road. I do, and then, instantly after, I scream. I scream and punch the wheel, and scream some more. I scream, although is not a complete scream, not one of those that are really loud or really powerful —it’s just a scream filled with sadness, a knot in my throat, and sudden tears. I punch the wheel a few more times, annoyed, angered, and heartbroken, and then I decide to step out of the car and just… breathe some fresh air. I walk in circles around the vicinities of the car, unable to do what to do next. Should I cry? Should I come back and apologize? Should I drive up to Dallas and don’t look back? Should I forget this entire day happened? I don’t know.

I don’t even know for how long I’m walking, but I do know it’s been some minutes when I approach the car again. Demian’s still inside it, the passenger’s door opened, and sitting on the inside, his legs stretching on the outside. He’s giving me my space, of course, and I appreciate him for that… but I still need to vent.

“What the hell did I just do, Dems?” I ask him, my lips shaking and tears streaming down my face once again. “What the hell just happened, why—” I say no more. Demian stares at me but says nothing. Again, he’s giving me space. “Why did I have to go there, why did I? I— why can’t I just feel good?” I ask although I’m not strictly asking him the question; I’m asking it to myself, to the universe, to… I don’t know to _whom_ exactly, I’m just asking it. And I’m complaining as I do, of course. My legs are shaking and so is my entire body, and that’s why I decide to sit down on the floor, my back against the car.

Demian’s good with feelings and with words, and he knows what to do every single time with practically every single person, and I’m no exception. But sometimes, words aren’t needed. Maybe that’s why he steps outside the car and sits on the ground next to me after a few seconds, first slowly caressing my hair, then hugging me… and then, once again, giving me space.

At some point, Demian stands up and I do the same. Then, we both get inside the car, only that he’s driving now and only that we don’t go straight to Dallas, Texas, but to a mini trip around Fort Worth, Texas. Demian says it’ll be better than just heading straight back to Dallas and, even if I don’t quite agree at first, as he’s driving and making comments of every single thing, place, or person he sees, just like a news reporter or something, I can’t help but feel glad he decided to do this.

He drives around the city as the music’s on and he sings every single song.

We end up taking a walk in a park, playing bowling, and eating pizza, all this in the middle of a city we had only headed to so I could meet my mom again. And yes, things didn’t work out at all back in her house, and I don’t even know if I’ll ever see or even talk to her again, and yes, I feel kinda bad for storming out of the house the way I did, and especially bad for those two kids that just… were there. Boy, I truly can’t stop thinking about those kids, I mean… they’re my brothers, or half-brothers actually, but the thing is… I know blood doesn’t equal family and family doesn’t equal blood, it doesn’t work like that, I’ve said it before and I’ve known it for a long time, but at this moment, I feel as if every single thing I’ve ever known just… doesn’t mean anything anymore. It doesn’t mean anything because I don’t know those boys, and yes, they’re my mom’s other sons, but I’ve always known kids aren’t to blame for shitty parents’ decisions… and this shouldn’t be an exception. I don’t know shit about their lives, nor about what a good or bad my mom is at her job, not in their experience at least, and I don’t even know anything about their dad, if they have one… but I hope they do. Or maybe not, not really; I just hope they have loving parents.

We get back to Dallas around midnight and head straight to my room. I don’t think about what happened earlier that day, not for the rest of the night at least. I had been sleeping alone for the past few days, with the TV on to feel less lonely and less miserable, but that night I don’t need it. I’m not going to say I don’t touch the remote control because that’ll be a lie; I turn the TV on, in fact, while Demian takes a shower. I don’t know for how long I find myself going through channels that play movies I’ve never even heard of, or new music by people I don’t know either, but I know Demian turns the TV off the second he steps out of the bathroom. I also know he hates the TV on while sleeping, although that’s not the reason he turns it off; he does it to show me I don’t need it. He does it as if to say, ‘you don’t need these distractions anymore, I’m here, you can sleep well because I’m here with you’, and I love him for that. I love him for everything he does and everything he is, but right now, I love him especially for that.

“Time to sleep, honey,” he says, after turning the TV off and walking towards the bed, tiresome eyes and an even more tired smile. “C’mon,” he says, as he lays on the bed, left side as usual, and finds a position that enables him to face me and be comfortable also, I guess, “sleep now,” he tells me, as he caresses my hair, “you’re okay… you’re okay…”

I don’t believe those things. I tell myself I’m okay all the time, but I never believe me. And yet that day, that night, when Demian says it, I somehow believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [let's chat on tumblr!](https://ilivejustinmyownworld.tumblr.com/)


	10. As a boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9: As a boy (or: A Brief Flashback To Matt Litter's Pre-Teen Years)

It’s Friday night and we’re in Vegas. We’ve played a show here the past day and now we have a night off before leaving for Los Angeles tomorrow morning. Of course, we spend it in casinos and spending money we now have, not like the first time we came here, that we couldn’t get in any —and didn’t have much money to spend, to be honest.

I always thought so highly of casinos, I truly did. I used to think they were these great, big places where you went and won more money than you spent. I used to watch movies about casinos and try to learn as much as I could to go there someday —I used to think I’ll win money easily and just… become a millionaire or something. Of course, real life is much more different, and even boring sometimes, so that doesn’t really happen here…

My old man went to a casino once when I was a kid. He drove up to Atlantic City on a Friday night and didn’t come back until Sunday evening. I stayed home alone, of course, as I usually did. By that time, in front of my house used to live a man and his daughter. He was a single dad and owned the video-store I always passed walking as I came home from school. I’ve always been curious about the video store, but never really had done anything about it. The only movies I watched were the ones I watched on TV or that my dad would, occasionally, rent. That Saturday, for some reason, I decided to take a walk and ended up at the video store. I entered since I’d never done that, and the owner recognized me from the house across the street. It was a Saturday morning and the place wasn’t particularly busy, so he chatted with me for a while. He asked me some questions about me and how I was, and if I liked movies, to which I responded I had no idea of movies that weren’t the few my dad used to rent or the ones I used to watch on TV.

I don’t know whether he pitted me, or if he just wanted to help me, or if he didn’t mean any of those two things and truly needed some help there, but the kind man ended up offering me a job there, at the store. He told me he had a daughter, which of course I knew, and that she was leaving for college the following year, so he was going to need extra help when that happened. So, he was hiring me on weekends only, so I could learn a bit about the place, the job and, of course, the movies. And I said yes, of course, because even if it didn’t mean much money, it at least gave me the chance to stay out of my house for a while and having a place to go —the complete opposite to what I was used to doing, which was walking in circles or, occasionally, hanging out with school mates. So, there I was, with a job on Saturdays and Sundays, in a place that soon became much more of a home to me than my own house, and with people that were close enough to become my family.

The man, Tom, taught me everything he knew about movies. He used to have a television at the store, and he used to play movies there all day. He played different movies from different decades every day, so there I watched everything, and I learned to love movies there, as well as I learned about movies, and actors and actresses as well. I learned the technical aspects; I learned some camera work and about music and sound. I also learned about music, bands, and artists.

Tom’s daughter, Alma, helped me with school all that year before she went to college. I was a thirteen-year-old kid and she probably was my first girl crush or my real-life girl crush more like it. She taught me study methods and ways to concentrate when trying to study things I didn’t quite like, and honestly, I could say she saved my high-school education. I wasn’t the brightest student, but I sure was much better than what I could’ve been without her help, or Tom’s. A year later, when I was fourteen, she left for college on the other side of the country, since she wanted to study film in California. She came back after some months, since it was thanksgiving, and then for Christmas, which I spent at their house that year by the way, and then also came back for Easter and for the summer, where she used to work at the video store as well.

Did I mention she had a girlfriend at home in Jersey? Well, she did. She did since she was in high school, a red-haired girl named Keira. She was English, from what I remember, and had moved in here when she had turned twelve because of her dad’s job. She used to hang out with us at the store all the time. I didn’t quite like her at first, since I had this big crush on Alma myself, but I guess I just… I don’t know, I understood, as any kid or person should, that I was no one to mess with their relationship —and, of course, I was a thirteen-year-old in love with a seventeen-year-old lesbian… I never stood a chance. So, in the end, I liked Keira. She was nice, she was funny, and always had candy in her pockets, which she kindly shared with me. She also was the one who taught me it was okay to like boys, or girls, or anyone really, as long as I felt happy.

When growing up, before my teenage or early teenage years, I had this idea in my head that boys _had_ to love girls and that girls _had_ to love boys. It was like that because everyone (or everyone I’ve ever heard until then, actually) said that, including the Bible. And I never knew anything the Bible said since I’ve never read it, but everyone said it said that, so I figured they were right (they probably didn’t even read it either, but still). At school when I was a kid, some guys would make fun of others and call them slurs and, of course, teachers always scolded them when that happened, but they just seemed to have this fixed idea in their heads —that anyone different from them deserved to be called a slur, and that slurs should have anything to do with identity and sexuality. It’s a horrible way to behave and to be if you ask me, and I honestly cannot understand people who think like that… but as a kid, I didn’t question those things. I didn’t think about those things, and neither did I do anything to defend the kids who suffered from such insults. But, with Keira and Alma in my life, since I was thirteen, I learned better.

I remember asking Keira once, that summer, about how come she liked Alma that much. I mean, I understood the concept of girlfriends, and same-sex girlfriends as well, but I had the thought in my mind that… I don’t know, _I_ could love Alma more than Keira, so I sort of asked her how come she liked her so much because I thought I was better than her, and that I liked other things about Alma, better things… and yet, her answer surprised me.

She talked about her smile and the dimples at the sides of her mouth, her hair and how pretty it looked in the sunlight; her sense of humor, how clever she was, and how much fun it was to be around her since she always had the perfect remark for everything and everyone. She told me she loved how educated she was and how she stood up for everyone who needed it. Keira also talked about the fact she loved Alma’s cooking and how she accompanied her to the park to run —even if Alma herself hated running.

And there, I understood. I understood she practically liked the same things I liked about Alma, only that with different points of view. Yeah, I liked her hair and her smile, and also her sense of humor, and maybe I’ve never tasted the food she made, but I liked the fact she bought me ice creams every time she could; maybe she never accompanied me to the park to run, but she did help me study, including in times where she was way too tired or even busy.

Keira also explained to me that everyone can love everyone and that it’s up to us to decide that, up to every single one of us —not up to our families, our friends, schoolmates, or even the government. And of course, that it’s not necessary for us to just like one gender. She said she liked girls and boys, both, and until then, I hadn’t even thought of that as a possibility. She told me it’s okay to like whoever we want to like, or love, as long as it makes us happy, and as long as it makes the other person happy as well. And I didn’t think much about it at the time, although I understood what she meant and why she meant it, but now? My god, I can’t even think of my life without that conversation… I probably wouldn’t be the person I am today without it, and probably wouldn’t be where I am today without it.

I think I always knew I liked girls. It wasn’t exactly knowledge; it was more of a thing I was destined to. Like, I grew up with the idea that, as a boy, I had to like girls, I was _destined_ to like girls. In fact, I liked one when I was thirteen and she was seventeen, and I’ve liked other ones as well, as a kid in grade school or watching different actresses on TV. And yet, with boys… I just didn’t have a clue. For me, it was something that I couldn’t reach, because I was a boy, and because _as a boy_ , I was _supposed_ to like girls. There was no other way for _me_ , although there was another way for _other_ boys, somehow. Around… I don’t know, fifteen or sixteen years old, maybe, I realized I was, _maybe_ , experiencing boy crushes. I just saw a boy on TV, in the street, even at school, and felt… somehow, the same way I felt when I saw a pretty girl — _attracted_ to them.

Of course, I never dared to try anything. I was way too insecure when I was a kid, and I mostly still am. I figured I was unlovable, and that made me feel that I didn’t deserve anyone.

But then, I graduated high school, got a nice diploma, and, along with my savings, left for New York. There, I was convinced my life would be different. I don’t know, probably it’s a stupid idea, because changing city doesn’t mean leaving your problems and your issues behind (or maybe it does, if you’re my mom), but still I had the hopes and the feeling everything would be different once I was there. I figured being in another city and meeting new people would make me more confident, somehow, but soon I learned that escaping a city doesn’t necessarily mean escaping your problems.

And yet, if I had never gone to New York, I wouldn’t have met Demian. Or at least that’s how I feel most times. Some other times, anyway, when I feel more hopeful and even more poetic, I feel as I would’ve met him nevertheless. I mean, if we are truly the soulmates I think we are, then we would’ve been destined to meet no matter the city, no matter the time. We would’ve met in some other city, in some other time… and we would’ve fallen in love anyway.

While in Rome, one time, we were in the living room of our rented apartment. It was the afternoon, I was on the sofa, writing something, and Demian was there as well, reading a book. In the kitchen, water was about to boil, and we were going to eat pasta. I don’t know if he got bored of his book, or if he just wanted to mess with me or what, but all of sudden he grabbed my notebook from my hands and tried to read what I had written there. Of course, I couldn’t let him do that, so I tried to take it from his hands, and it was a matter of seconds until the two of us were fighting over a notebook on the floor, a mix between insults that didn’t mean anything and laughter. He was trying to read it and failing because I kept grabbing his arm, but I couldn’t reach for the notebook either. So, in the end, he ended up asking me to read out loud something to him, some of my writing, and I gave in. I gave in because I was honestly tired of fighting, I was so done with everything that I just said, ‘fuck it, let’s read this to him’, and so I did.

 _“Light a candle for me and let me forget all my sins, light a fire for me and let me relieve them, Nothing you’ll do will make me leave you, and nothing I do will make you love me…”_ I read, and then I looked up at him. He was holding the notebook, still, as my hand grabbed his arm, but above all of that, he was looking at me with a look I’d later get more than used to; a love-struck look mixed with confidence. Demian can truly pull that look better than anyone I’ve ever seen, to be honest; he can look at you with heart eyes, but the rest of the face —eye contact, dilatated pupils, chin up and a playful smile— is pure confidence.

The next thing I knew, he was kissing me and, next thing I knew after that, I was kissing him back. The following morning, I woke up in bed, holding his hand against my chest, like I would do from then on.

I’d lie if I say I forgot what happened in between or about the rest of the story, but I just don’t feel like sharing it. It’s mine and his, ours only. What I can say with confidence and a lot of pride is that that night, was the first night of the rest of my life. I already knew Nick was moving away from the apartment. I believe we lasted about two weeks in that apartment, just Demian and me, because the minute we found another one we moved out of there. We found a place for ourselves, a place we could be ourselves and a place that felt like home. We wrote many, many songs there, just like in Rome.

Now I kiss Demian every day and every night. I write songs with him and for him, as well, and I play them live (with him) in front of thousands.

On Saturday morning we are leaving for Los Angeles. We have a long day and a long road ahead of us, but that doesn’t stop us from stepping out of the hotel early in the morning, around eight, before leaving, in order to greet the fans waiting for us there (imagine waking up early in the morning only to go find a band at their hotel and wait for a photo, an autograph or a simple greeting from them? Truly amazing, the fans...).

“Hey, what are the chances of you writing another album any time soon?” a girl asks (to me or any of us, actually) at some point. I look up from the paper I was signing and stare at her, smiling. I love it when they do that when they talk like we’re like… one of their friends. At first, it used to piss me off, for fans to talk to me, not because they’re fans because I love fans, but because… well, I’m really awkward and don’t know how to behave in front of people, especially if they’re as close as fans are in these occasions (because one thing is to be on the stage and another one is to be in front of them, greeting them). And yet, now I’m slowly beginning to get used to it, and I honestly love that feeling.

“You already want another album?” I ask, amused, “we haven’t even finished touring for this one!” I hear laughter.

“We _need_ another one!” another girl screams from somewhere near. I laugh, just like they all do.

“Well… we just gotta write faster, then…” I say, firming another autograph.

“Aren’t you always writing?” a boy asks, as I come near him to take a picture.

“Uh, sometimes… I haven’t had much time lately,” I confess, as we take the photo, “but I’m usually… with something in mind.”

“Will you write even on tour?” another voice asks, in the middle of many others.

“Of course,” I confess, nodding.

“Is it true you always share rooms with Demian? You _can_ write faster, then!” a girl asks, making everyone else scream. I laugh, although I wouldn’t be laughing if that was happening in the middle of an interview.

“Uh, I don’t know, you ask him…” I say, smiling, and the next thing I know is that several fans are calling for him (who isn’t really far, just a couple of feet away) and ask him the same question, as he walks towards me.

“So, they apparently want to know the truth…” Demian says, a grin on his face, as he signs an autograph. I nod.

“Doesn’t everyone?” I ask him, leaning to him so he can hear me better… and fans scream.

“I love you!” We hear some of them scream.

Security comes to us a couple of minutes later and rushes us to the bus. We have to say goodbye to the fans, and they’re not thrilled about it, but after all... it’s what we have to do. “We’re sorry, folks,” says Nick, as we begin to walk towards the bus, “but we gotta go, thank you all for coming, you’re all wonderful, we all love you...”

Demian’s the last one of us to leave. Well, I mean, I stay behind with him, but he’s still taking pictures and signing autographs. He loves that and he loves it dearly. “Dems?” I tell him, as I see Rick, our chief security guy, rushing us, “let’s go, buddy...” I rush him. He looks up at me, whispers something in my ear and I nod, smiling, only to gain a kiss on the cheek from him (and more screaming from the fans).

In the end, we get on the bus and head straight to LA. We won’t get there until the late afternoon, and I’m already hoping for this long and exhausting journey —that was ironic, by the way. I hate traveling by bus since I’d rather use the car or the train, but at this stage, it’s all the same. It’s not that I don’t care, but I’m just tired. Our first tour bus didn’t have this. We were lucky it was an actual tour bus and it wasn’t a van or anything, but it was close to that, I gotta be honest. We have a TV here, which is great, and also a lot of things that just keep us entertained.

Demian and I usually use our bus time to watch movies, by the way. I don’t know, it’s just our thing. We watch from the stupidest of things to the most dramatic ones, and it’s okay because we have fun, you know? It’s fun, and it’s one of those moments that sort of calm me down when I feel like I have some horrible and stressful hours ahead… I just try not to think about it, you know? About the end of the American Tour, and about what comes next —Europe.

And Europe means something new, something different, something even great and, above all things, something I can screw up. I don’t know how, why, or… anything, really, but I just know I can screw it up. My anxiety is to blame for that, I know that… we all do. And I know I shouldn’t think about it that much, and that I should think about what I have ahead and blah blah, but I just can’t help it… Europe is such a big opportunity for the band, the first one of that kind… but it’ll be alright, huh? I mean… I’ve got no reason to suspect it won’t, I’ve got no reason to expect it won’t… not yet, at least. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news are that, from chapter 10 on, I'll upload TWICE a week, so enjoy your reading <3
> 
> [let's chat on tumblr!](https://ilivejustinmyownworld.tumblr.com/)


	11. Lie to the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10: Lie to the truth

LA on Saturday and Sunday. Tuesday in San Francisco. Thursday in Portland. Friday and Saturday in Seattle… and then, the end of the USA part of the tour.

Saturday in LA we have soundcheck in the early morning and then a live television interview. I don’t know if it’s me who has a problem with LA, or maybe I just tend to misjudge, but I’ve been here four times and I hate it a little more with each passing day. I hate the place, the people, the sun, and the beach. I usually hate the beach to be quite honest, but I tend to visit it anyway since Demian loves it and I don’t mind accompanying him… some times. 

Regarding all that shitty time with the interviewer after Jersey, Kyle and I sort of made amends a few days later. I mean, not that there was anything to fix or anything, but… you see, there were more interviews to give and stuff like that. And Kyle of course had to remind me to… well, behave, basically. 

Same as he does today.

We’re being interviewed in a talk show whose host has a fame for being everything but subtle with questions, so that’s freaking me out. Demian and I are the most well-known faces of the band, so even if the five of us will play a song on air, it’s the both of us the ones who’ll stay for some minutes to chat with the hosts… and speaking of hosts, the man has a reputation for asking questions that are everything but subtle… which of course is a problem for people like me. 

Demian tells me to take it easy and to let him speak. He’s got _the_ most natural talent for interviews, the lucky bastard… yet I feel uneasy anyway. 

In the end, we get there. We play a song. The audience cheers. The boys leave, and Demian and I get to sit on the couch as the interviewers (the man who asks the non-subtle questions and a woman I’ve never seen in my life) prepare to speak. 

First comes the introduction. They say something that sounds like a welcome, they tell the audience who we are and what we do, and then, ask a couple of questions regarding the new album, nothing unusual with that. 

“So, what inspires you to write songs?” Interviewer number one slash the male one slash Gary asks, at some moment. 

“Uh, I don’t know, just… sometimes songs just come, it’s more of a momentaneous inspiration, at least for me,” Demian answers.

“Doesn’t real life interfere?”

“Yeah of course it does, and it’s mainly about it, I guess,” he adds, looking at me, “I mean… sometimes you need to write something, to get an idea out of your head or out of yourself and just writing it in the form of a song helps,” he adds, turning to face the interviewer again.

“I’ve heard you two write songs together sometimes, but do you think you could write alongside others that aren’t yourselves?” Interviewer number two slash the female one slash Hailee asks. 

“Not really,” I answer quickly because I don’t imagine myself writing songs if I’m not either with Demian or all by myself. Lucky for me, he nods. 

“Nah, neither could I…” he answers then, smiling at me. 

“You’ve been playing together for years now, and for two albums, but tell me, how did you two meet?” Gary asks. I roll my eyes —I can’t help it. These are the kind of interviews I hate, the kind of questions I hate. I hate the fact they either don’t do their research before asking or they just don’t care and ask away, even knowing the answer. We’ve answered this question a million times for the past years, and yet they keep asking it… and it’s not even like they bring it up in order to add something more interesting, no… they just straight up ask that shit. 

“Uh, we met at a party,” Demian answers, already seeing my ‘done with everything and everyone’ face, “at my birthday party, to be exact.”

“You were turning eighteen, right?” Gary asks, looking at Demian. He nods, as he smiles.

“I was, yes. I’m from Cleveland and I was in New York for the summer because I have a cousin who lives there, and since my birthday is in August, I spent it there… my cousin insisted on throwing a big party because I was ‘in the greatest city in the world’ and I said ‘whatever, let’s do it’… so there I met Matt and also Nick, since we sort of, had friends in common, and we’ve been together ever since,” he adds, turning to me again and patting my leg, while smiling, that big grin made for me only. I can’t help but smile —he’s got that effect in me, after all. 

“Well, that’s a story!” Hailee says, as the live audience claps and occasionally screams, “Was it an instant connection or did it take some time for you to trust each other?” 

“Uh…” Demian begins, thoughtful. “I think it was pretty instantaneous,” he responds. 

“Yeah, it was,” it’s my turn to add, as I notice both the hosts waiting for me to say something, “it definitely was…”

“He was there because they, I mean he and Nick, and Freddy too, were looking for a singer and wanted to start a band… and my cousin knew them, so they managed to get invited… and the thing is I spent my entire birthday celebration playing songs with Matt, so… you could truly say it was instantaneous…” Demian adds because if he doesn’t keep talking, they’ll keep asking. I like the fact he’s the best with answers, much better than me to be honest, but still… I can’t help but feel somewhat betrayed. I mean there he is, confessing the entire world our own personal business, something so personal and so intimate as it was the first night we met, even if nothing other than writing songs happened, just… I mean, I could feel some sort of connection with him that night, and I could actually feel I was falling in love with him _that_ night… and maybe that’s only special to me and maybe if I don’t say that out loud and to the entire world (I’m not planning to anyway) it’ll keep being special but… there’s just something about telling these things to the rest of the world that doesn’t quite… make me feel comfortable, not at all. And I know I’m the same boy that said that he didn’t mind talking about the song written to his shitty dad, but this is different —this about Demian and me. This is about _us_ and our relationship, the same relationship we’ve been developing for like four years, the same relationship we’ve been keeping safe for that time… it’s about us, not _them_. And yes, I know Demian didn’t mean to say all this in a bad way or to hurt me, just for the interviewers to have an answer and that’s it, and anyway I just… don’t feel good. 

“Let me get this straight,” Gary said, looking at the audience and then at us again, “you were celebrating your birthday in New York, the greatest city in the world indeed, and decided to spend it with some random guy you had just met —no offense, Matt—, it’s that it?” Gary asks as he laughs. Demian manages to smile, and so does Hailee, but I don’t feel like smiling. 

“Yeah, pretty much like it,” Demian says as if it wasn’t a big deal.

“I can’t believe this!” Gary says, laughing, as the audience laughs too. 

“But it was good you did!” Hailee says next, “maybe if you haven’t done that, we wouldn’t have this band and this beautiful friendship now…” I smile, lightly, and nod. Maybe I like Hailee, but just her. Also, I wouldn’t really call our thing strictly a ‘friendship’, but it was close… but it all started with a friendship, so she’s not entirely wrong…

“Well, you’re right, Hailee,” says Demian, nodding, as he turns to me. I nod as well, tired. “I’m actually glad I decided to spend my eighteenth birthday night alongside who’d later turn to be my best friend in the entire world…” I smile, fondly this time. 

“I’ve heard you guys, as a band, had a nice moment back in Jersey…”

“Yeah, it was a nice gesture from the boys to me, you know? Since it’s my hometown—” I try to sound as calm as I can, even if I’m not that calm at all. 

“And I’ve heard it was the first time you came back to Jersey after years, and... well, you weren’t very eager to talk about the reason before, may I ask why?” Gary insists.

“Well, I— I, uh— I don’t like oversharing, I don’t like doing that in interviews, and I don’t like when people ask me these personal questions just because they feel like it—” 

“So, you mean—”

“Let me finish, Gary,” I say, already feeling Kyle’s screams at me once this is over, “I just like to keep some things to myself, you know what I mean? And the whole Jersey thing is one of them.”

“Yet, I’ve heard you seemed eager to discuss it with fans… is that right?” Gary asks, concerned, “I mean… with fans but _not_ interviewers?”

Yeah, because fans are genuinely concerned, I want to tell him. Because people like Kyla can find solace in what I tell them, as they discover our experiences are much more similar than what they think... that’s why. 

“Nah, it isn’t like it,” I say next, “the thing is… I don’t like to talk about my personal life when the objective is _selling_ something.”

“Then shouldn’t you stop selling albums?” Gary asks, quickly. The audience laughs, because that’s what they’re supposed to. Hailee smiles, uncomfortable, and Demian just moves in his seat, serious. And I laugh, ironically. Man, he’s good…

“You know what I mean,” I rush to answer, “I write albums in my terms… I choose everything when it comes to albums, but it isn’t like it here since I cannot choose the questions… and this isn’t with you guys,” I add, looking both at Gary and Hailee, “it’s about media and what people choose to consume and what sells and what doesn’t…” I shrug. “I just like to choose what to talk about when it comes to my personal life, that’s it…” I add because I can feel Kyle’s eyes looking at me from aside, his ‘I’ll hate you for this for the rest of your miserable life, you prick,’ look, and I can also feel Demian’s eyes on me. 

“Those are powerful declarations,” Hailee says before Gary can say another word. She looks honestly astonished and I’m unable to decide whether that is a good or a bad thing. 

“And you mean all of this?” Gary asks, almost as if it was all a joke, “do you agree?” he then asks Demian. I turn to him, expectant. 

“I certainly don’t mind sharing some things, you know, as long as they aren’t way too personal since there are things one always wants to keep private… but I surely get Matt’s point…”

“What if I ask you about your relationship status, for example?” Gary asks, and I feel like throwing up… man, why did I even come here? “would you share that?”

“I like to feel comfortable with the subject I’m talking about,” Demian says, “and I like people to respect that… but,” he quickly adds, “if you mean if I care about selling, truth or lies, but especially lies, with my personal life… I don’t give a damn for as long as no one messes with me or the people I love…” Gary laughs and adds some sort of remark, but I don’t listen to it. 

What on earth did Demian just say…?

Hailee says something too, but I don’t listen either.

“So we could say the main difference between the both of you is your approach to the industry? And I don’t necessarily mean music industry,” Gary says next, “I mean the entertainment industry in this century…” he turns to look at me. “Maybe you just don’t belong here, huh?” he laughs, and so does everyone else. As he speaks, Demian lays back on the sofa, his back against its back and one of his arms stretched over it, his fingers sort of over my shoulder. It’s his way of comforting me, I guess. 

“Hey, that’s not fair at all,” he proceeds to complain once Gary’s done talking and the audience is done laughing. “I mean, that doesn’t mean shit, man!” he says, smiling ironically. “We’re in the industry to play music, not to succumb to its expectations of us or our persona… it isn’t fair at all to say one’s not meant for the things he loves just because he doesn’t fit with the whole appearance industry is trying to give all of us, it’s not fair at all…” 

“Do you mean you don’t care when it’s about you, but you do when it comes to one of your friends?” 

“Man, I just said I _do_ care about these things when they involve people I love! And of course, I love Matt!” he adds, as Gary nods. 

I’m being paranoid, I know I am, but I feel that every single time Gary looks at us, he’s trying to make us speak. I don’t necessarily mean to make us speak about _ourselves_ , but he looks as if he knew everything on our minds, and as he wouldn’t stop until it all became spoken —whether that is my life back in Jersey, everything involving my past, my personal life, _our_ thing... I just felt like throwing up, but now, I feel more like crying.

“What is your problem then, Matt, with the industry?” Gary asks, and I roll my eyes. 

“Well, I just told you, man! I don’t like them selling lies, or whatever it is they want to sell, and for them to mess with me… my life is private, you know? Period. I don’t have to answer any question if I don’t want to.”

“That’s valid,” Gary says, even if he doesn’t sound like it, “but I was going to ask you both somethings that have been circling on the internet, regarding both the reasons behind Matt’s departure from New Jersey and the nature of your relationship…” 

That’s it. I don’t hear the ending of that phrase, but I open my mouth again as soon as he’s done talking, and it sounds like this, 

“Listen,” I say, because I don’t find the willingness to keep handling this anymore, “I tried to be as concealing as I could earlier,” I add, because I really need to say this, “but I’m not able to hold back my tongue for any longer… Here’s the thing; I hate the industry. I hate the system. I hate the fact you have to sell something if you want to be someone, and I don’t mean selling material stuff, I don’t mean selling CDs or music or whatever it is that I do —I mean selling parts of me. I won’t do that, I never wanted to and I’m almost certain I never will, but I’m positive I’m not doing that _now_ . I will not sell my integrity, what I stand up for, and what I believe in just to increase my popularity, some less hatred, and some more views to a show or copies for a magazine. I know that the world works like this and that this is the world that we live in, but I can still live in it and be critical about it. I refuse to sell myself and who I am because people want to make money out of my life, out of my tears and my joys —I already have myself to do that, I don’t need anyone else, and I certainly don’t need you, or this show. I love talking to my fans as long as there’s respect and there are boundaries set, but that’s because our relationship is like that — _ours_ , in interviews, isn’t like it, not at all… and it will never be like it because very rarely there is genuine interest.” 

What happens next is truly a big, big, big mystery. I feel like in the middle of an anxiety attack again, everything spinning, everything makes me nervous, and nothing making sense. 

I know Hailee tries to save the rest of the interview and that does a good job at that, same as Demian… but I know they’ll say more than something when we’re done with the interview when they’re done with us. Gary, by the way, has a constant resting face and I sense he’s about to explode. We probably go to a pause after I finish my speech, and no long after that, we’re done.

Kyle has that look on his face like he wants to end us, but me in particular. The rest of the boys are there as well, to receive us like heroes. Rick just shakes his head but says nothing, and Janice has a look that means she’ll ask me any minute from now if I feel good —and she actually does it.

“I’m fine,” I say, “just a little dizzy…”

Demian’s hand is on my shoulder the entire time.

Hailee sort of apologizes to us.

Gary says something like “Whatever you say, I don’t think you’ll ever manage to change things…” and I don’t answer. “If you behave like that again or if this affects the show anyhow, you’ll never come back to this studio again…” he says, although I’m sure the conversation’s longer than that. He’s talking to Kyle, and I’m walking towards the exit alongside Demian, “I can’t tolerate this…” he adds, as we are leaving, turning his head towards me. I know he’s saying it to me —I know it’s personal. He keeps staring at me as he complains to Kyle. “Make your boys clear they’ll never set foot in this place again,” Gary adds, still looking at me. I smile, ironically.

“And that’s more than okay for me...”

And with that, I leave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [let's chat on tumblr!](https://ilivejustinmyownworld.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> [let's chat on tumblr!](https://ilivejustinmyownworld.tumblr.com/)


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